365 days at 221B Baker Street
by Freyaat
Summary: Just a little collection of (Short-) Stories starring the worlds only consulting detective and his loyal Blogger. 365 keywords and one story for each day of the year. Well at least that's the plan. Enjoy!
1. 1 Milk

**_Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters ... God I wish I did!_  
**

**Warning:** English is NOT my native language. So please don't punch me too hard for my mistakes :)

**A/N:** This collection is an attempt at breaking my habit of a.) not finishing stories and b.) not writing on a regular basis. So I came up with the idea of writing a ficlet a day, just to keep me busy and you entertained. The keywords I use were kindly provided by friends and the "Duden". THX for that.

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**_1. Milk_**

a novella of "365 days 221b Baker Street"

Life was normal again at 221 b Baker Street. Well as normal as it could be with a bored consulting detective - the only one in the world, mind you - and a dedicated Blogger with a writing block. Dr. John Watson was sitting on the desk in the living room, staring at the rhythmical blink of his cursor while listening to the heavy raindrops crushing against the high windows of the flat. It had been raining for days now and it seemed that every drop of it washed away a tiny bit of John's creativity. "What are you doing?", asked the too familiar rich voice of Sherlock near John's right ear. He hadn't noticed the detective emerging from the bathroom before, but when a small drop of water fell from the dark curls on John's shoulder he looked up into the inquiring eyes of his flatmate. "Writing. Blog!", came the short answer from the former soldier. Huffing Sherlock turned away and strolled into the kitchen. "What?", John asked, equally on edge. "You didn't hit a single key in the last twenty-three minutes. I hardly consider that writing.", Sherlock replied taking his usual seat in front of the microscope. John tried, he really tried to keep his anger down but didn't quite succeed. "Yeah, like you could do it any better.", he snapped, closing his Laptop an abandoning any further attempt at doing something useful. Sherlock's mocking laugh reached the ears of the doctor but when he glanced to the detective the dark-haired man was already focused on his latest experiment again.

It had been like that for the last few days. Endless rain and no case to solve left both men slightly irritated and John had to admit that even he was bored. There was only so much reading and watching crap telly someone could do without going insane. Not even writing on his blog seemed to work as the words just wouldn't come. And as much Sherlock pretended to be engaged with his 'experiment', John could tell in a heartbeat that the detective wasn't really into it. For every other moment Sherlock would fidget and readjust his position on the chair.

Five minutes after John traded his work on the blog for an only mildly interesting novel, Sherlock stood with the grace of a cat and an annoyed sigh, closing (?) the distance to the fridge with two long steps. The doctor didn't look up, but he could tell by the familiar sound of the fridge door what Sherlock was doing. Could it be that the detective was hungry? John tried to recall the last time they had eaten together when Sherlock spoke up again. "We need some milk!", he informed his flatmate. Not accusing but indicating. Curious, John looked up from his book. "I only got some yesterday. There's no way we used it up already."

"It's not right.", Sherlock muttered without sparing a glance back at John. "What?", John asked confused. Sherlock sight again, turning around and waving the carton of milk in his hand. "It's not the right one.", he pointed out again. "It's wrong." John could only look at his flatmate, not comprehending what was going on. "It's wrong?", he asked at last. "Yes. Wrong.", Sherlock confirmed. Still not understanding, John stood and entered the kitchen as well, looking at the innocent carton in Sherlock's hand. "It's milk Sherlock. It's not expired, it had been in the fridge the whole time, and as long as you didn't put any kind of chemicals or body parts in it I don't see what's wrong with it." Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if dealing with an exceptionally stupid child. "It's the wrong brand, John." The soldier looked into Sherlock's eyes to see whether the taller man was mocking him or not. Sherlock's expression was deadly serious. "The wrong brand?", John asked. Sherlock nodded. The doctor took a few calming breaths before pointing out, "It's the same kind of milk I always buy, Sherlock." The detective raised an eyebrow. "No. It's a different brand."

"What the hell does that matter?", John shouted, his a patience wearing thin. "It's WRONG.", Sherlock repeated emphasizing the last word. John shook his head. He couldn't believe that they had an argument about milk. "So what?", he asked eventually, "You want me to go out and get the RIGHT ONE?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock answered innocently. "I'm not going to drink that one." He looked at the small carton as if it contained some kind of deadly poison. "Just in case you didn't notice Sherlock it's raining. HARD!" Sherlock glanced at the window as if taking in the current weather conditions for the first time. Then he shrugged. "That's hardly my fault now, isn't it?"

"Well, why don't you go and get it yourself then?", John spat out angrily. Sherlock calmly placed the carton of milk on the countertop before retaking his seat in front of the microscope. "Can't. Busy."

"Bloody hell.", John muttered. "Why do I even bother?" With that the doctor put on his shoes and jacket knowing it would hardly protect him from the rain, but at least he got something to do. "Oh, and take some biscuits too, will you?", came the voice from the kitchen. "Oh, shut up, Sherlock."

John could practically feel the other man's wicked smile.


	2. 2 Full Moon

**A/N: **Well, that was fun. I recommend listening to the "moonlight sonata" while reading this. Have fun :)

**Warnings: **None

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**2. Full Moon**

a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"

A sweet, alluring melody pulled John from the blissful land of dreamless sleep. Well, leave it to Sherlock and his bloody violin to wake him up in one of the rare nights that wasn't full of memories and dreams of his life in a war zone. John opened one eye, just one, and glanced at his small alarm clock. 2:43. Fully intend on going back to sleep John turned around and closed his eye again. But sleep evaded him as the melody continued. Something... something was different yet familiar. John listened closely, finally recognising the tune. Beethoven. The moonlight sonata. He realised at last, what seemed so different. That piece of music had been composed for a piano, not a violin. Satisfied with his deduction, John turned around again but one more time sleep didn't come. "Good. Fine!", he murmured, exiting his bed and climbing down the few steps to the living room in his PJ's.

John was definitely NOT attracted to men, despite what people might think. Far from it. But even his straight senses had to admit that the sight was breathtaking.

Sherlock stood, his back to the door, in front of the tall window, Violin in hand, the bow a perfect extension of his right arm. The dark-haired detective was bathed in moonlight, only wearing his loose pyjama pants. The cool light cascading shadows over his tall, slim form.

John swallowed. Hard. Fighting the impulse to close the distance and touch Sherlock just to make sure he was real. Clenching his hands into fists he walked over to the couch instead, sitting down and listening to the music. If Sherlock noticed the arrival of his flatmate he didn't show. Not a single note was missed while he continued playing the piece of music over and over again.

In the morning John could not remember at which point he fell asleep but he startled awake when a cup of hot tea was placed noisily in front of him. "You shouldn't spend your nights on the Sofa, John. It's not good for you." The doctor took his time stretching his sore back before he cared to answer.

"It's not, that I didn't want to sleep in my bed, Sherlock!" The detective gave him a questioning look. "What's wrong with your bed then?", he asked sipping on his own tea. "Nothing is wrong with my bed.", John answered.

"So what for god's sake are you doing on the couch?", Sherlock continued his questioning. John fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"Because YOU woke me up last night, playing the violin and all that." Sherlock gave him a confused look. Taking in the form of the doctor as if trying to decide whether he was joking or going insane. John felt a rare flash of self-consciousness rise in his belly. "What?", he finally snapped. Sherlock continued to stare at his flatmate. "I wasn't playing the violin at all, John. I fell asleep around midnight while reading a really bad book."

John opened and closed his mouth rapidly, giving the impression of a fish out of the water. He tried to form a coherent string of thoughts but it took him nearly a minute to reply. "Sherlock. You WERE playing the violin last night. I heard you. I SAW you. You were standing right here...", John pointed at the window, "... like a fallen angel in the moonlight playing Beethoven!" Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I'd never play Beethoven. I hate Beethoven." John looked thunderstruck. Now, that the detective pointed it out he remembered. Sherlock had always been very picky with his music and Beethoven was definitely not his 'area'. Only now John realised what had felt wrong last night. It wasn't Sherlock playing his violin, it was that particular piece of music that had made John uneasy. Sensing the distress in his flatmate Sherlock spoke up again. "Maybe you were dreaming..." John shook his head. "And how did I end up here then?", he asked gesturing at the couch. Sherlock shrugged. "Well, sleepwalking then. It was full moon after all."

John considered it for a minute, but shook his head at the end. "No. I don't do sleepwalking Sherlock. I never did." Once again Sherlock shrugged. "And I don't play Beethoven. Period! Well. However. I'm going to take a shower." With that Sherlock vanished into the bathroom, leaving John alone and on edge.

Half an hour later Sherlock re-emerged from his shower and found John sitting on his computer, typing rapidly. "What are you doing?", the detective asked. "Research!", came the short answer. "On what?" Sherlock leaned in, looking over John's shoulder. "Sleepwalking, obviously.", the doctor replied. "Obviously.", Sherlock murmured, then sight. "John. It's not that bad. Sleepwalking I mean. There are a lot of people who do it regularly."

"I don't! Ever!", John bit out angrily. Sherlock took a seat in his favourite chair picking up the newspaper and said, "But it's not a problem John. There are..." A small knocking on the door interrupted the detective and without waiting for an invitation Mrs. Hudson entered the flat.

"Oh, good morning boys.", she said smiling, placing a tray of biscuits on the kitchen counter. "Thought you two might care for something sweet. You know it's really not nice arguing in the morning. What is it all about this time?" Both men looked slightly embarrassed, but neither cared to explain. With a sight Mrs. Hudson made to leave but turned around at the doorstep looking to Sherlock. "Oh, I nearly forgot. What was that lovely tune you were playing last night, dear?" John choked on his tea, while Sherlock turned white as a sheet. Sleepwalking, indeed.


	3. 3 Disappearing books

**A/N: **Well that was actually a real pain in the ... Yeah, you know. Some days I have to work really hard for every single word. However. I hope it turned out not as bad as I thought at first. Oh and of course! Thank you for the lovely reviews. See you tomorrow :)

**Warnings:** A bit of verbal fighting between our boys. Nothing too bad though. Oh and probably really crappy grammar (sorry for that).

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**_The curious incident of the disappearing books_**

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"_

"What are you doing?", Sherlock asked looking up from his newspaper. John was pacing around the flat, peering into drawers and cupboards.

"I'm searching.", replied the doctor, not pausing in his actions.

"For what?" Sherlock's voice was calm but distinctively amused. "Something.", John replied, kneeling down to take a look beneath the couch. "There's no need to point out the obvious, John."

With a deep sigh, John sat down on the couch. "A book. I'm searching for a book, Sherlock."

The detective lifted an eyebrow. Not able to see John's problem he pointed at the large bookshelf behind himself without giving a vocal reply. John shook his head. "No, it's not in there. I know I put it on the coffee table a few days ago and now it's gone."

Sherlock took up the newspaper again. "Well, take a different one then. There are more than enough books in this flat."

"I don't want a different book. I'd like to finish the one I started to read.", John pointed out picking up his quest again. With practised efficiency he searched the kitchen. He even looked into the freezer, but despite his best efforts he wasn't able to find his book.

"Maybe you took it to your bedroom." Sherlock put in.

"No I didn't.", John said irritated. "If I HAD I would be able to find it because my bedroom is tidy compared to … this." John made an expansive gesture. "This?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. THIS, Sherlock. The living room, the kitchen, THIS flat. It's a mess and you know it." The detective ignored the subliminal accusation, pretending to read.

Twenty minutes later - John still had not found his book - the former soldier slipped into his jacket and left the flat without another word to go to the bookstore.

_2 days later…_

"Sherlock?" John entered the kitchen where his flatmate was focused on something that looked suspiciously like a human tongue.

"Not now I'm busy!", the man murmured.

"I just wanted to…", John began.

"NOT NOW!"

"Did you see my book, Sherlock?", he asked anyway. Sherlock took a deep, calming breath and looked up from his experiment. "What book?"

"The book I bought two days ago. The novel about the wizard and his magic skull. Did you see it?"

The detective gave John a sceptical look. "No.", he said at last and took up his work again.

"You didn't take it then?", the other man tried a second time. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why would I take your book?"

"Well maybe because you want to read it. I don't know." John pointed out slightly in despair.

"I don't read fiction, John. You know that.", his counterpart murmured.

"Anyways. I just can't believe that all of a sudden every book I try to read disappears without a trace."

Sherlock chuckled. "That would make a great headline for your blog. 'The curious incident of the disappearing books'."

John looked offended but wisely choose to not vocalise his thoughts.

"What are you doing anyway?", he asked curiously as Sherlock pinched the tongue with a pair of tweezers.

"I'm testing the function of human taste buds after death."

"There is no function of..." Sherlock gave him a stern look. "Well, never mind. So you didn't..."

"NO!", Sherlock shouted, banging his fist on the table. "I didn't see or take your godforsaken book. Ask Mrs. Hudson. Even better go and phone Lestrade maybe the Yard will help you. Well, on the other hand... no. Don't call Lestrade. He wouldn't be able to find it. Even if it sat on his own desk and then, as a result, he would call me. No, no! Call Mycroft. Maybe he can engage his secret service in the hunt for the mysteriously vanished book. Yes. That's good. Better yet, he could pick you up in one of his posh black cars and take you away to whatever club he fancies at the moment. That way you would be gone for an hour or three and I would be able to WORK."

"WORK?", John yelled back, anger turning his cheeks red.

"You call prodding human body parts with pointy instruments work? Well, fine. Have fun with your taste buds then." With that John stormed out of the flat, slamming the door. Hard.

Hours later, long after nightfall, John stood in front of the massive black door of 221 B Baker Street. He had spent his day in Mike's company. Going to the pub and trying to cool his head. Looking back he had to admit that a huge part of the fight had been his fault. John knew how precious his experiments were to Sherlock and how much the other man despised interruption but ... well. John was sure that Sherlock knew what happened to his missing books. He couldn't explain why, but he knew it deep inside his guts. On the other hand these very same guts were telling him at the moment, that he might have had one or two drinks too much.

Feeling slightly nauseous and more than a little bit guilty the doctor unlocked the door and ungracefully took the few steps to his shared flat.

Both, the living room and the kitchen, were dark and deserted but he could see a small source of light coming from Sherlock's bedroom. Slowly John approached the door that was left slightly ajar, but before he could verbally announce his presence the dark voice of his flatmate reached his ear. "You are drunk.", Sherlock pointed out. Not accusing, just detecting. John opened the door fully, finding the detective sprawled out on his bed, reading. "Sherlock, I...", John swallowed hard.

"Go to bed, John. I don't need you throwing up on my doorstep.", Sherlock prompted without looking up.

"But I..." The detective gave the doctor a dark, stern look but there was no hint of anger in it. "Go to bed.", Sherlock repeated with just a hint of a smile on his lips. John smiled back and did exactly what he was told. Not bothering to change into his sleepwear the former soldier fell into bed.

The next morning John regretted each drink he had had the day before. Ever since he woke up his head was pounding and he didn't dare to take some aspirin because he wasn't sure he could keep it down. Groaning he worked his way down to the living room. Maybe some tea would settle his stomach.

"Well, good morning John." An unusually cheerful Sherlock greeted him. "Morning.", John bit out through clenched teeth. On the way to the kitchen his gaze fell on something sitting on his desk. Two books and a tray of biscuits were resting next to his laptop. His books. His lost books. Perplexed John looked at Sherlock who was in the midst of preparing tea.

"How...? Where...?", John wasn't able to from a coherent thought and Sherlock chuckled.

"As always, you see but you don't observe..."

"Sherlock, don't!", John pleaded sitting down and placing his head in his hands. He couldn't deals with the brilliant deductions of his flatmate at the moment. Of course that didn't stop the man.

"It was all written in the dust, John. Dust is eloquent." Sherlock savoured the moment, when John's curiosity peaked, then he sighed a bit patronizing and explained. "I didn't take your books but someone who is familiar with this flat did. Aside from not observing you are not listening too. In fact I already told you yesterday."

Sensing the growing distress in the doctors expression Sherlock put him out of his misery. "Someone took them from the coffee table while cleaning up the flat. The person obviously thought you already finished the books and wanted to read the novels too, for whatever odd reasons."

The kettle boiled and Sherlock looked genuinely pleased with himself.

It took John's tired brain a few more seconds to process the information, but when he finally realised what Sherlock had said his hangover was suddenly forgotten.

"MRS. HUDSON!", John shouted, storming down the stairs to the flat of their landlady.


	4. 4 Under suspicion

**A/N: **Sorry about the delay, sleep won over finishing this one. Slightly darker story this time. And, yes! There will be an explanation... (Probably in the next chapter) Have fun!

**Warnings:** mentioning of (former?) drug abuse

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_**Under Suspicion**_

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street_

"Oh my god, just look at that Mrs. Hudson! It's...it's just... I don't know..." Dr. John Watson stared at the TV, horrified. His landlady who sat next to him on the couch looked equally stunned.

"Jesus! The colours. Heather and Emerald, with this complexion... Poor Connie Prince would be turning in her grave!" John nodded and took another bite of Mrs. Hudson's homemade apple-pie. They were watching telly in the old lady's homely living room as they did every once in a while when nothing else was scheduled, or when John needed a little time out from his challenging flatmate.

A few loud knocks on the front door though interrupted their discussion and Mrs. Hudson got up to answer the call.

"... talk to Sherlock... here?" John was only able to catch fragments of the conversation but he knew the voice by heart. Lestrade was paying Baker Street a visit again. A new case?

Curious John got up and joined the two other people standing in the corridor. "Greg!", he greeted with a polite nod. "Hello John.", the Detective Inspector replied seriously. He looked tired and uneasy. "You happen to know where Sherlock is?"

John watched the DI for a few more moments. It wasn't unusual that the man came by to ask for advice or deliver some case files personally, but something in his look made John suspicious.

"New case?", John asked. Lestrade hesitated. "I'm not sure yet. Maybe. So, is he in?" Mrs. Hudson and John shared a look. Finally John answered, gesturing to the stairs. "He's up there and sulking I'm afraid."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow in question. John smiled knowingly and shrugged. "Well, you know how he is ..." Lestrade nodded pensively then sighed. "Listen. Did he seem... I don't know... different to you lately. Moody? Paranoid?"

John cracked a smile. "We are talking about Sherlock here, right? He's nothing else but..." The doctor paused, the smile vanishing. "Hold on... what are you implying, Greg?"

Lestrade raised his hands defensively. "Nothing. I don't imply anything. Just... well. I need to talk to him, 's all." With that he started to climb up the stairs.

Lestrade entered the flat without bothering to knock, closely followed by John. Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, wearing his favourite blue dressing gown over a worn out T-shirt and loose pants, hands folded neatly on his chest. He gave the perfect impression of being asleep, but suddenly his eyes snapped open, looking at the DI intently.

"No!", Sherlock said, closing his eyes again.

"No?", the DI asked. Sherlock sighed, raising from the couch in one graceful, fluid motion and walking over to the Inspector. Their noses nearly touched when Sherlock continued, his voice dark and dangerous.

"'No' is the answer to your question, Greg." Lestrade looked slightly intimidated but didn't retreat.

"Show me, then!", he prompted.

"That's ridiculous." Sherlock snorted, backing off and slumping down in his favourite chair.

All the while John watched the conversation, standing on the doorstep and wearing an irritated expression. "Hold on a second. What's going on here?", he finally asked. Neither of the men cared to explain, though. In fact, John was completely ignored.

Lestrade took the seat opposite of Sherlock and looked at him intently. "If you've got nothing to hide you might as well proof it!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What proof do you want, Inspector? Do you expect me to piss in a cup so Anderson could check my urine? Or do you want some blood? Hair?" Lestrade looked away uneasy.

"Personally I'd go for the hair. It bears the most significance after all.", Sherlock continued sarcastically.

By now even John could tell what that all was about. Drugs. Lestrade obviously entertained the suspicion of Sherlock using drugs. Again.

"Oh come on. Seriously, Greg?", John came to Sherlock's defence. "He wasn't even using this damn nicotine patches, for at least two months." Sherlock gave John a warning look. "Shut up, John."

Realising what else his 'defence' might imply the doctor grew quiet again. The Inspector gave both of the men a tired look, before finally explaining. "I got an information. A ... hint. Someone saw you in the company of Julius Almady, an infamous drug baron, last week, Sherlock." The detective snorted amused. "So what?"

"What am I supposed to think?", Lestrade asked. "Do you want me to ignore it? 'cause I wont. I don't want to find you in some goddamn alley high on who knows what. I don't want to be forced to put you off a case because you are not even able to speak anymore. And most of all I don't want to find your dead body just because you were tired of being bored and 'miscalculated' a bit."

During the rant Sherlock grew a touch paler than usual and although the detective tried to hide it, John could see the guilt in his eyes. Suddenly the doctor understood. It happened before. Everything Greg had mentioned, had happened. Well, except Sherlock's death of course, but John didn't doubt for a second that some kind of 'close call' had occurred in the history both men shared. John felt ill. Of course he knew about Sherlock's history with drugs but he never imagined it being that serious. Not even Mycroft had mentioned that.

Finally Sherlock spoke up. "You are supposed to trust me, Greg. I. AM. CLEAN!"

Lestrade shook his head. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I can't. Not here."

"Oh, for God's sake.", Sherlock bit out irritated and shrugged out of his dressing gown, exposing his bare arms up to his shoulders . The creamy skin showed no signs of recent injections which seemed to be enough for Lestrade as he let out a relieved breath.

John on the other hand couldn't take his eyes off a couple of faded, straight scars on the crook of Sherlock's left arm. Not the marks of a needle, obviously, but too regular to be the result of an accident. He had seen scars like that in his training as a doctor when he was working in a psychiatric clinic. And he didn't like seeing them on his flatmate. Not a bit. Sherlock, recognising John's inquiring gaze, put on his robe again.

"Satisfied, Inspector." Lestrade nodded. "Thank you... Just one more thing..."

Sherlock sighed, his patience wearing thin. "Why did I meet with Julius? Because I needed information. For a case."

" 's all?", the inspector asked surprised.

"Of course.", Sherlock answered snippy. "Now. I'm sure you can show yourself out. Because I've got work to do. Oh. And inspector, give my regards to Mycroft." With that the detective vanished into his bedroom, leaving John and Greg in the living room.

"Mycroft?", John asked. "What's that to do with Mycroft?"

"He called me a few hours ago and told me about the meeting.", Lestrade admitted. John sighed. "Yeah, of course."

An uncomfortably silence stretched out between the two friends. Neither wanting to talk about Sherlock's drug history, but both if them not being able to think about anything else. Suddenly the Inspector got up with another sigh. "Well, I guess I'm gonna go." John nodded still lost in his thoughts, escorting the DI out nevertheless. Before the man could leave the house though, John spoke up again. "Greg!"

"Yes?"

"The scars on his arm. Do you..."

"Don't!", the Inspector interrupted, arms raised in defence. "Don't ask about them. I tried once and Sherlock practically exploded in my face. ' course I have my theories but neither Sherlock nor his brother talk about the scars or their origin. Just don't ask." John nodded but couldn't be convinced. He would ask Sherlock, regardless of what Lestrade thought.

Upon arriving in the living room again, Sherlock was sitting in front of his computer, not looking up.

"No.", he said absentminded.

"No?", John asked.

"'No' is the answer to your question, John!"


	5. 5 Scars

**A/N: **Well guys. Here's the explanation to the scars mentioned in "Under suspicion". I have to admit, that was harder to write than I anticipated. However. It's done. The next one will be something funny, I promise.

Thanks to all of you for the comments, favs and follows. They are greatly appreciated :)

**Warnings: ****Rated M**** (at least), ** mentioning of drug abuse and attempted suicide, slightly OOC Sherlock (maybe), dark and angsty

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**_Scars_**

_a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"_

Days passed after Lestrade had visited Baker Street. Days which kept John thinking and on edge, despite the case - very dull and obvious, according to his flat-mate - they just solved. He couldn't get the scars on Sherlock's arm out of his mind. Five straight, faded lines which had been revealed when the Detective Inspector demanded to see Sherlock's arms to check them for puncture marks. There had been none, of course, only the faded scars. Clearly Sherlock didn't want to talk about them and on the one hand John knew he had no right to ask for an explanation. They were just another piece of the mystery that was Sherlock Holmes and John was in no position to reveal them all. On the other hand, he WAS Sherlock's friend and had proofed his trustworthiness on more than one occasion, so why for God's sake couldn't he just work up the courage to ask. John sighed.

"You're thinking so loud, even the cabbie can hear the wheels turning in your head.", Sherlock declared without averting his eyes from the slowly passing landscape.

"Sorry.", John answered, but didn't mean it. No. He was not sorry about worrying over his friend's well-being.

Sherlock chuckled. "Dinner?", he asked.

The mentioning of food made John's stomach rumble in anticipation thus taking his thoughts successfully away from the scars. "Chinese takeout?", the doctor replied. Sherlock nodded, still looking out of the window.

Two hours later John sat on the couch, full and comfortable, listening to Sherlock's performance on the violin and watching the man intently. He was thinking again. How was it possible that he, a doctor, had failed to notice the scars for nearly three years? How? Thinking back John tried to recall an instance when he had been able to see Sherlock's bare arms. He couldn't remember even one. All this time the detective had been able to hide the scars, wearing either one of his long-sleeved shirts or dressing gowns. Knowing Sherlock, John was sure this couldn't be by chance. The man hid his arms deliberately.

John nearly jumped out of his pants when Sherlock dragged a screeching note from his violin, bringing a wonderful piece of music to a sudden halt.

"Stop it, John. Will you?", the detective snarled, turning around to face his loyal blogger.

"Stop what? I didn't do anything!", John pointed out, feigning innocence but failing.

"You've been thinking about it for days on end now. It's annoying."

John felt the blood rising to his cheeks. Of course the observant detective had noticed his behaviour. "I...I didn't mean to... I...", John stuttered.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock put his violin on the desk and approached the doctor. Taking a seat next to him he said calmly, "Why don't you just ask and get it over with?"

Surprised John looked up into the pale eyes of his friend, debating whether the detective was serious. Not able to read Sherlock's mood, John decided he might as well take this chance. "What happened?", he finally asked.

Sherlock grinned, but John could see the tension in his shoulders. This wasn't going to be easy, for both of them.

"That's a terrible wide question, John."

John huffed. Of course. He should have anticipated that. Getting a straight answer to a personal question out of Sherlock was harder than pulling teeth.

"Fine. How did you get these scars?", John tried again.

"Well, obviously they formed in the healing process of a wound. You, Doctor Watson, should know how this works.", Sherlock said sarcastically.

"SHERLOCK!" The dark-haired man raised an eyebrow in question. Why did John get this agitated. It was not his fault that the doctor failed to ask the right questions.

"You know what? Forget it. Just... forget it.", John said getting up with the intention to go to his bedroom, disappointment clearly detectable in his voice. Sherlock watched him with a confused expression. His mind was racing. He didn't want to talk about it, he couldn't. Couldn't admit, even to John, that at some point of his life, emotions ruled over his intellect. On the other hand Sherlock could clearly see the distress on John's face. Finally coming to a decision, Sherlock took a deep, calming breath.

"I cut myself with a kitchen knife.", he admitted. The confession made John stop dead in his tracks. Turning back to his friend, he saw how much it took out of the secretive man to tell him this. Sherlock's posture was stiff. Arms resting on his knees, his eyes focused on some ramdom spot on the carpet. Slowly, as to not agitate the man further, John retook his seat next to Sherlock.

"Why?", he asked at last. Not sure he really wanted to know the answer, but still hoping it had been an accident.

"Because I wanted to die.", Sherlock said honestly, his voice calm and collected but John didn't miss the small tremor in the long, graceful hands.

"What happened?", John asked again. Sherlock smiled smitten.

"When I was fifteen, my Grandfather died in an accident.", the detective began to explain. "At that time, he was the only person I really cared about. He never scolded me for doing stupid experiments, never judged me for being an antisocial brat, because I wasn't. Not with him. He knew me better than anyone, better than I knew myself. He was the one I turned to, when I couldn't deal with the emotions that battled with my mind. He was the one that kept me sane, actually. And suddenly he was gone. There was no one left to run to." John watched Sherlock closely and swallowed hard. He had never seen his friend looking so lost.

"What about your parents? What about Mycroft?", John asked after a minute of uncomfortable silence.

Sherlock chuckled darkly. "Mycroft wasn't there. Going to uni, he never visited home, not even on holidays and honestly I can't blame him. My parents... well. It's safe to say they were too involved in their own problems to notice me."

"But they were your parents. How could they not ..."

"It didn't matter to me.", Sherlock interrupted. "It didn't matter, as long as my grandfather was alive. After his death however..." Sherlock trailed off but John could read the implications clearly. After the death of his Grandpa Sherlock wasn't able to cope with his emotions. Not getting any help from his parents, or Mycroft, the only solution young Sherlock saw was to end his life.

"After his funeral I snatched that knife from the kitchen..."

John sighed. The sympathy for his friend's situation making him ill.

"It was a stupid attempt though." The admission made John's heart beat even faster. "Why?"

"Well, obviously Mycroft WAS at home that time. I should have known he would figure it out too quickly. Maybe I even DID know... However. He found me not five minutes later and saved my life." Sherlock sighed heavily, glad he was finished with his story. But of course John didn't give up that easily.

"What happened afterwards? Did you get help?", he asked carefully. Sherlock snorted.

"Help? Yes, that's what they like to call it.", he spat, not caring to explain who 'they' were. "I got a therapist, of course. A couple of them, actually, 'cause none of them wanted to keep up their 'work' with me for too long. Idiots, all of them. I stopped seeing them the day I turned eighteen." John nodded, jumping to his own conclusions. "Instead you started to do the drugs..."

Sherlock shrugged. That was all the confirmation John needed.

"God, Sherlock...", the doctor said tiredly rubbing his suddenly burning eyes with the heels of his hands. He always held the suspicion that something had made Sherlock the 'high functioning sociopath' he claimed to be, but this... It was a mess.

"Spare me your pity, John.", Sherlock said sharply.

"I don't..."

"Yes, you do! I don't need pity, John. It all turned out well in the end, right?" With that Sherlock got up and took his violin back from the desk. He touched the soft wood carefully as if reassuring himself that it was real. Then, he began to play. A sad melody, John had never heard before, filled the flat and he knew this conversation was over. Feeling the need to do something, John got up as well and approached his flat-mate again. Careful as to not interrupt his play, he softly touched the man's right shoulder.

"Thank you, Sherlock." John said. Sherlock didn't answer, nor stopped his music, but John could see the small, sad smile on his lips perfectly fine.

That night the doctor lay awake for a long time. Listening to the music and thinking about the man in the living room.


	6. 6 Furry, small, purring

**A/N:****Oh my god, it took me so long to get back to writing. I apologise. Really. But life kept me busy and exhausted the last few days. Anyway. Here is the new ficlet. Little bit sappy, but fun to write. Enjoy!**

**Warnings:** none

* * *

**_Furry, small, purring..._**

_a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"_

It was odd to return to 221B alone. In fact, strangely as it seems, it had been odd to leave without John in the first place. Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but of course he did notice when John left the flat. This time the doctor left three days ago, after a phone call from his sister. Apparently there had been trouble with her housing and John – responsible, caring brother Dr. John - had rushed to her help. That left Sherlock alone at Baker Street. Luckily Lestrade had called only a few hours later, otherwise the consulting detective would have gone insane with boredom. A vicious double murder kept Sherlock busy and therefore all of Mrs. Hudson's walls intact.

The instant Sherlock opened the door of 221B he noticed that something was different. Slightly wet footprints led up the stairs to their flat. So, John had returned at last. But there was a difference to the pattern of the steps, as if the doctor had carried something. Nothing too heavy, Sherlock decided, not more than fifteen pounds. Grocery's maybe? Sherlock sniffed. There was something, something new to the smell of his home. Something… No, impossible. John would never bring… would he?

"Jooohn…" Sherlock ran up the staircase, taking three steps at once, and rushed into the living room. His flatmate was nowhere to be seen, but judging from the sound of running water John was taking a shower. What left Sherlock utterly shocked though was the creature rolled up in his chair. In HIS chair. Striking green eyes blinked up at the detective, appraising, for mere seconds, before they closed again. After the initial moment of frozen astonishment Sherlock made his way to the bathroom and slammed the door open, not caring whether John would mind the intrusion.

"What is that thing sleeping in my chair, John?", Sherlock asked agitated. John made a surprised noise, standing in front of his flatmate with only a towel around his hips. "Sherlock, get out!", he demanded, slightly blushing. Of course the stubborn detective didn't comply.

"WHAT. IS. IT. John?", he asked again, not irritated about the doctor's state of nearly undress, but about the creature in the living room. "Sherlock, could you just… Can we talk about that in a few minutes please?" The dark-haired man didn't give in.

"John…", he said threatening. John sighed exasperated. "It's a cat, Sherlock. You know? Furry, small, purring, hunting down mice."

Sherlock scowled. "I know what a cat is, but what is it doing here? There are no mice in this flat!"

John fidgeted with his towel. "Harry asked me to watch out for Ginger for a few days. Just until she is able to settle things with his landlord."

"Ginger?", Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. "The cat…", John answered. "Obviously.", Sherlock murmured. "A few days?", he asked suspiciously. John nodded. "We are NOT going to keep that thing!", Sherlock continued seriously.

"No, of course not.", John said affirmative.

"Fine.", Sherlock murmured again, looking utterly exhausted all of a sudden.

"Sherlock?", John asked just as his friend was about to leave the bathroom. "Hm?"

"What have you been up to, the last few day's I mean?", John asked carefully. "Case.", Sherlock replied snippy.

"You okay?", John asked further, his doctoral instincts kicking in.

"Yeah, sure. Fine.", Sherlock answered, leaving the slightly concerned doctor behind.

When John emerged from the bathroom, properly dressed of course, he found Sherlock sitting on the couch. Elbows on his knees, hands folded under his chin, he was watching the sleeping cat intently, with a mixture of disgust and morbid interest.

"It's sleeping.", Sherlock murmured as John approached him and sat next to him, checking the detective for any visible signs of injury without attracting attention. Finding none, John replied. "Funny you say that. Good cue, Sherlock, really." Sherlock shot him half a glance before returning to study the sleeping cat. John sighed deeply.

"When was the last time you slept, Sherlock? Or ate something for that matter."

"Why is it sleeping?", Sherlock wondered without answering the question.

"She's a cat. They do that all the time.", John declared. Curious, Sherlock got up, walked over to his chair and kneeled in front of it, keeping his eyes on the feline creature all the time. That, finally, got Ginger's attention. With a big yawn that showed all the sharp, pointy teeth, the cat stretched. Sitting gracefully on her hind legs, wrapping the long, bushy tail around it, she regarded Sherlock with a mix of curiosity and contempt. Not getting any reaction out of the dark-haired stranger the cat meowed challenging.

Sherlock drew his brows together. "What does it want?"

Smiling John answered, "Maybe she wants you to pet her." As if being confronted with a deadly jaguar instead of a domestic animal, Sherlock cautiously raised his hand in front of the cat's face. Immediately Ginger started to rub on it, purring contentedly. The astonished look on Sherlock's face made John wonder, if the Holmes family even new the concept of keeping pets. Probably not, he told himself. No, definitely not.

A clearly audible growling, that had nothing to do with the cat, pulled John out of his reverie. "Sherlock, I ask you again, when was the last time you ate something?"

"Thursday...", the detective answered absent-mindedly, patting Ginger lightly on the head.

"THURSDAY?", John shouted, startling both the cat and Sherlock. Ginger jumped out of the chair, fleeing in the direction of the still open bathroom door.

"What's wrong with Thursday?", Sherlock asked, raising to his feet.

Rubbing his hands across his face in disbelieve John answered, "You DO realise what day is today, right? Because it's SUNDAY Sherlock. That makes three days. You didn't eat or sleep for THREE bloody DAYS?"

"I was on a case.", Sherlock explained apologetically.

"Jesus. That's no excuse for... well never mind." John said, storming to the kitchen and checking the fridge for something edible. There was nothing, of course. Grabbing his wallet and jacket, John walked to the door.

"Where are you going?", Sherlock asked, finally shrugging out of his coat.

"Shopping." John spat, and left without a glance back at the irresponsible man.

More than half an hour later John carried two big bags of groceries up the staircase to their flat. He should just have ordered something in, he decided again, but well, to late for that now.

He found Sherlock curled up on the couch, sleeping soundly, with Ginger resting contentedly in the curve of his belly. Sighing but unable to suppress a smile at the sight, John put the shopping away, deciding that sleep probably outranked food at the moment. He fetched a blanket and carefully wrapped it around Sherlock's sleeping form. The man stirred slightly.

"We're not going to keep it...", Sherlock murmured, already nearly back asleep he rested his hand on the purring form of the cat.

John chuckled. "No, of course not."


	7. 7 Only priests and fools are fearless

**A/N: **Oh god, how I like to see him suffer (a bit) ... Sherlock proofs one more time that he is human.

**Warnings:** Darker story again, angsty, mentioning of possible future suicide (does that make any sense?). Nothing explicit though.

* * *

**_Only priests and fools are fearless..._**

_a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"_

_"What apparently started as a joke, led to a mass panic at the Comedy Theatre in London's West End, when several people where certain they had seen a real ghost during the performance. Five members of the audience were admitted into hospital with minor injuries. The persons responsible for the prank where..." _

Sherlock grunted and switched off the TV.

"HEY!", John complained. "I wanted to see that."

Sherlock gave his flatmate a stern look. "That's ridiculous. People being afraid of ghosts."

Sherlock tossed the remote control in John's lap and went into the kitchen to prepare some tea. He had hoped for something interesting in the evening news, but all he got was a report on people being utterly stupid. God, he needed a case. Badly. The last one was, what? Three days ago? Sherlock sighed, pouring the boiling water in relatively clean cups.

For a minute he entertained the thought of going back to his experiment, but there were only so many hours one could look into a microscope without going blind. 'Mind palace, then!', Sherlock decided.

Taking the two cups of tea back into the living room he handed one to John and flopped down onto the sofa, taking his trademark thinking pose. Stretched out long, with his hands folded on his chest Sherlock was on the doorstep of his mind palace when John's voice brought him back to reality.

"I don't think it's ridiculous.", John stated silently.

"What?", Sherlock asked, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

Taking a deep breath John explained. "I don't think it's ridiculous to be afraid of something. It's a part of being human after all."

Sherlock grunted but didn't bother to give a vocal reply, retreating back into his mind instead.

"Of course you wouldn't be able to relate.", John murmured under his breath, but not quiet enough for the detective to hear.

Sherlock sighed. Abandoning every further attempt of visiting his palace of solitude he sat up, resting his long legs on the coffee table.

"No." Sherlock confirmed, his temper rising. "I am not able to relate to superstitious fears of any kind. _' Timendi causa est nescire.'(*) _", the detective quoted.

It took John a few seconds to translate the Latin words in his mind._  
_"'_Ignorance is the cause of fear?'" _, he asked, not sure if he got it right. Sherlock nodded.

"Well, that's a nice one, really. Cicero?", John asked. Sherlock absent-mindedly shook his head.

"Seneca.", he answered, petting the cat of John's sister, that still resided in 221B, despite John's promise it wouldn't be more than a few days. Sherlock didn't mind that much anymore.

"Anyway.", John continued, taking a sip of his tea. "I disagree. People will always be afraid of things. Even if they do not actually exist. Probably especially then."

"Yes. That's exactly my point.", Sherlock stated excitedly. "People are afraid of things they don't understand. If they just would use their brains, they could see how foolish all of that is."

'And once again you don't include yourself in the term.', John thought, as Sherlock continued to speak of _'the people'_ as if he wasn't a person himself.

John chuckled. "And because, of course, YOU understand everything there is nothing you'd be afraid of. I see."

A long, uncomfortable silence followed this statement. A silence in which John wondered if he had offended Sherlock.

"Only priests and fools are fearless...", Sherlock murmured at last.

"Sorry. What was that?", John asked, not sure he heard correctly.

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and repeated. "Only priests and fools are fearless, John. And I've never been on the best of terms with God. (**)"

John watched the other man surprised. Was that a confession?

Sherlock avoided John's gaze, concentrating on Ginger (the cat) instead.

"So... there ARE things you are afraid of?", John asked carefully. He knew he was entering dangerous waters, asking Sherlock to admit that he was human after all.

The detective shrugged. "Of course.", he answered quietly, giving John a dangerous look as if to prompt him to laugh.

The doctor was stunned into silence. Sherlock freely admitting a weakness? That was certainly new.

Clearing his throat John took the risk of upsetting Sherlock and asked. "Care to elaborate?"

"No.", the detective answered stiffly, putting the cat on the floor and retaking his earlier position on the sofa.

"But Sherlock... It's perfectly fine to...", John tried again but was cut off by the angry voice of his flatmate.

"No! Drop it, John!"

The doctor sighed. Apparently there was only so much one could expect from the great, infallible Sherlock Holmes to admit. On the other hand he was still surprised he got that far. Knowing from experience when to back off John turned on the TV again, muting it, as not to disturb Sherlock wherever he was hiding in his mind palace.

Hours later John awoke slowly with the feeling of being watched. His limbs were stiff from sleeping in an awkward position in the chair and he took a moment to stretch before he turned around to face Sherlock, who was still placed on the sofa, staring intently at the doctor.

"Do you still want to know?", Sherlock asked, running his hand through his hair in an self-conscious motion.

It took the doctor a minute to recall their last conversation. When he finally realized what Sherlock was offering he nodded slowly, not trusting his voice.

Sherlock sighed. Placing his folded hands under his chin and closing his eyes he quietly began to talk.

"I'm not afraid of such stupid things as ghosts or spiders. That's really ridiculous. Even the thought of death doesn't bother me ... much." John looked up at that. So Sherlock was afraid of dying. The detective opened his eyes and looked into John's. Sherlock's eyes were dark and somehow... haunted?

John recalled only one similar incident he had experienced this side of his friend. The evening he told him about the scars on his arm. Trying to look reassuring John asked Sherlock to continue.

"It all depends on the circumstances, really. Being shot to death by a criminal, or dying in an accident would be perfectly fine." John took a breath to respond, but Sherlock held up a hand to silence the doctor.

"What really terrifies me is...", Sherlock trailed off.

John saw the indecision on his friends face. "It's fine, Sherlock. Go on..."

"What do you know about Alzheimer's disease?", the detective asked suddenly.

The question took John by surprise. He didn't know how AD was related to their conversation but tried to put together the facts he knew.

"Well... It's mostly diagnosed in people over 65. The most common form of dementia, but the one we understand least. There's no cure, though there are drugs which help to slow the process down. It's categorized in stages, going from difficulties in the ability to memorize newly learned facts, over trouble to speak and move, to complete dependence on other people for even the simplest of actions and finally the death of the pers... Oh..."

Suddenly John knew what Sherlock was trying to tell him and he didn't like it. On the other hand it made so much sense. Of course Sherlock would be afraid of loosing his ability to think. Of course he would be terrified of being dependent on others. The only thing John didn't understand was... "Why Alzheimer's? Don't get me wrong, it IS terrifying, but there are so many illnesses which eat away your brain..." Sherlock snorted at this, but John went on. "... So why AD?"

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Did you know that there is a form of early-onset AD that is inherited?" John thought about it for a moment, remembering reading an article a few years ago.

"Well yes, but it's extremely rare. One to fife percent if I remember correctly." Sherlock nodded. "My father died of it eight years ago, when he was 53.", he finally confessed. John was shocked into silence. He hadn't known that. In fact he hadn't known Sherlock's father was dead at all.

"But... but ... There are tests, to detect a genetic predisposition.", John pointed out, but Sherlock made an indifferent gesture.

"Inaccurate, error-prone, insignificant. No one is able to predict whether Mycroft and/or me will be unfortunate enough to develop AD, so there's no use in testing."

Sherlock certainly had a point there, John had to admit. "But there has to be some sort of... I don't know...", John tried again but Sherlock shook his head, looking a touch paler than usual.

"There is none, John. There is no way to be sure but though I am afraid of carrying the defect in me, what frightens me most of all is that I might not be able to see it in time. That my brain rots without me noticing it, without being able to ... end it before I am the intellectual equal of a cucumber."

_'Without that, my brain rots' _ John remembered Sherlock saying, on more than one occasion. Brainwork. Mind Palace. Memory techniques. Now all of that made even more sense. With a start John became aware of Sherlock's last words.

"Hang on... What do you mean by 'end it' ?" Sherlock gave John a serious look.

"What do you think?", he spat.

John sucked in a breath in shock. "Sherlock, you can't be seriously..."

"... entertaining the thought of killing myself before it comes to that?", Sherlock finished John's sentence.

"Why not? I'd rather be dead than forced into an institution, drooling all over myself." John couldn't respond to that. He couldn't because he knew Sherlock was right.

John walked over to the sofa with the sudden urge to hug Sherlock or pat him on the shoulder. Something. Anything. The detective though, saw it coming and - raising too - walked over to the window, picking up his violin and bow in the process.

"Anyways... You should go to bed John.", Sherlock said while plucking on the strings of the instrument to tune it.

"But...", John managed before he was interrupted again.

"You must be tired...", Sherlock said, raising the bow and drawing a single bittersweet note from the instrument, thus effectively ending the conversation.

John retreated to his bedroom, but despite being terribly tired he wasn't able to fall asleep. For a long time his listened to the music drifting up from the living room and thought about the man playing it. Once again Sherlock had not failed to amaze John. Though not with his intelligence this time, but with just another proof that even Sherlock Holmes was human and therefore not immune to illness ... or fear.

* * *

* "Timendi causa est nescire - Ignorance is the cause of fear." Seneca, Roman philosopher

** "Only priests and fools are fearless and I've never been on the best of terms with God." Patrick Rothfuss, _The Name of the Wind_


	8. 8 The wedding

**A/N**: It's been way to long and I apologise. Somehow ... I don't know. Anyways. Here is the next story. Sherlock and John attend a wedding, and of course, Sherlock is Sherlock ;)

Oh and btw. It's five o' clock in the morning, so please don't flame me to badly for any mistakes.

Enjoy!

**Warnings:** It's a party, what do you expect?

* * *

**The Wedding**

a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"

"Oh boys, look at you both. All dressed up and handsome." Mrs. Hudson beamed at her two lodgers with a little bit of maternal pride as she saw John and Sherlock off on this sunny Friday. Indeed the two men looked dashing in their respective outfits. John wore a dark grey suit with white dress shirt tie and everything, which made him seem taller and more angular. Sherlock… well Sherlock just wore his usual formal attire, including purple shirt and Belstaff coat. Although he definitely had made an effort to tidy his unruly dark locks, with little success however.

The two residents of 221 B Baker Street got into the hired cab, which was headed for Holland Park, the location of the most boring thing on earth - according to Sherlock -, a wedding. Specifically Mike Stamford's wedding. Four weeks ago John had received a letter from Mike in which he announced the happy news and invited John and Sherlock to the ceremony. They agreed immediately. Well, at least John did. Sherlock of course didn't want anything to do with this `tedious rite of bonding and sentiment` and it took John and Mrs. Hudson nearly two weeks of threats and promises to persuade the detective to attend.

Once on their way to the ceremony John broke the so far comfortable silence. "Remember, Sherlock..."

"Yes.", the Detective cut John off. "No..", the Doctor tried again. "Remember..."

"Yes.", Sherlock said again, without looking at John. Instead he seemed very interested in some kind of fuzz on his coat. John sighed. He did that a lot in the presence of his flatmate.

"Sherlock, please. Mike is a friend. Just don't be...I don't know. Just play nice, okay?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh for god's sake. Why does everybody assume I don't know how to be polite?" John looked at his friend intently.

"It's not about manners Sherlock. I'm talking about social skills which you definitely lack. I don't expect you to go all cosy with Mike and his family, just... just keep your opinions of the people to yourself, okay. No deductions about the guests, just this once!"

Sherlock laughed without humour. "John, I can't just switch it off like a torch. My mind just notices certain things. It's nothing I can control." John nodded. He knew that by now.

"Yes. I know. But you could keep your mouth shut." Sherlock puffed out an annoyed breath. "Fine.", he finally said.

It was a beautiful, classical wedding. Both the bride and the groom looked fabulous in their respective outfits and during the ceremony nobody could have doubted their love for each other. The site in the heart of Holland park was decorated with red roses and white orchids, breathtakingly romantic but not soppy. The weather was nice, warm and sunny and when the ceremony neared the end and Sherlock still hadn't caused any trouble John felt himself relax slightly. It wasn't a big wedding, all in all maybe 60 guests, but it was arranged very nicely.

After the official part of the wedding and after all guests, including an unusually tame Sherlock, congratulated the married couple, the real party started. All around their secluded area of the park people were standing and sitting in little groups, chatting, laughing and having a good time. In a small gazebo musicians had begun to play various songs and after the bridal pair had their first dance more and more people gathered on the makeshift dance floor. At this time John felt comfortable enough to leave Sherlock alone for a few minutes. "Hey. I'm going to get a snack. You want anything?", John asked his friend. Sherlock shook his head absentmindedly, obviously entranced by a particular song the musicians were playing. John, who was more than used to Sherlock's moods by now just shrugged and walked away in the direction of the extensive buffet. After helping himself to some smoked salmon and a piece of the delicious wedding cake, John fetched two glasses of champagne and made his way back to the gazebo, only to find the world's only consulting detective gone. With an unpleasant feeling in his guts, that had nothing to do with the excellent food, John sighed and went back to the gallery where the ceremony had taken place, to look for his insufferable flatmate.

Surprisingly John found Sherlock after just a few minutes. The detective was deeply engaged in a conversation with one of Mikes sisters -Susan, John remembered and another man, nursing a bright red drink. Judging by the look of pure distress on the vaguely familiar man's face and the deep red blush on the woman's cheeks, Sherlock had finally abandoned his resolution of playing nice. "Jesus...", John murmured, approaching the threesome quickly.

In an attempt to save the day John tugged on Sherlock's sleeve, effectively drawing all attention to himself. "Heeeyy...", John said with a forced smile. "I've been looking for you." Sherlock gave his friend an enquiring look, but John didn't give him the opportunity to speak up again. "Susan. Hi. Jesus, you look fantastic. How long has it been. Two years?" The woman in her early thirties gladly took the cue. "John. Oh my god. You didn't change at all. Yes, yes... almost exactly two years. How have you been?" Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance and took a big mouthful of his drink. "Great. Great. I've been really great..." The arrival of Mike's second sister, Jean, saved John from embarrassing himself any more.

"Eddie, Susan. Here you are. We've been looking for you all the time. They are ready for the photos now." Oddly enough the mood only got more tense. Sherlock emptied his glass, turned around and walked away with a knowing grin on his face. John looked puzzled at Mike's three relatives, realising that the man had to be Jean's husband, judging by the apologetic kiss he gave her.

"Who's that guy?", Jean asked, pointing at Sherlock who just now refilled his glass at the long bar.

"Oh, he's a friend of Mike and John apparently.", her sister answered, fidgeting with her short skirt and nodding to the doctor.

"John? John Watson? Jeez... I'm so sorry. I didn't recognise you for a moment." John smiled at Jean and shook her hand affectionately. "Hello Jean. Yes. Don't worry. It has been a long time." The elder of the sisters nodded. "Yes. A long time indeed. John I'm so sorry but as much as I'd love to chat with you, we really have to ... " John made a sympathetic gesture and shook his head. "Oh no, no. Go on. I don't want to keep you. I'm sure we'll find another opportunity." Jean nodded gratefully and went back to the gazebo, closely followed by Eddie and Susan.

Honestly, John was glad to have escaped the conversation. He had much more interest in knowing what the hell Sherlock had done this time. Walking up to the detective, who watched the photo shooting intently, John sighed.

"Okay. Tell me. What did you do to them?" Sherlock looked at his friend utterly puzzled.

"I didn't do anything, John. I just pointed out that..." John threw his hands above his head in an exasperated gesture. "I knew it. Just today, Sherlock. Couldn't you... just this once..." Sherlock looked innocently at his flatmate. "I thought I was doing them a big favour by telling them that..."

"No. Sherlock, NO. You promised! Jesus. I left you alone for twenty minutes and you managed to embarrass Mike's family." At that Sherlock smiled knowingly. "Trust me. They would have been more embarrassed of I hadn't said anything." Now it was John's turn to look confused, but the detective remained silent and nipped on his drink. John knew exactly what Sherlock was doing and he hated it. He had raised the doctor's interest and now, there were only two ways this could end. Either John didn't ask further and would be tortured by his curiosity or he DID ask and would definitely get information he really didn't want to know. John closed his eyes briefly and sighed again.

"Okay. Fill me in.", he said finally.

"The younger sister and her brother in law are having an affair." John shook his head. "How could you possibly know that?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and with a big smile on his face, began to explain. "Clearly Mr. Archer, Eddie as his wife likes to call him, is very fond of women at least seven years younger than himself. He's been watching all the female guests of thirty-twoof age and younger intently. But his special attention focuses on the younger one of Mike's sisters, Susan. During the ceremony, when his wife had been preoccupied by her task of carrying the rings, Mr. Archer, who sat very conveniently next to Susan, was caressing her thigh on more than one occasion. That and the fact that both of them were obviously aroused when the ceremony ended means that's not the first time they got intimate. Long time affair, clearly. Then there was their disappearance to the storage room, when the dancing started and the fact that Susan wore a slip during the wedding but not after she came back from 'refreshing her makeup' and the very obvious stains on Eddie's left trouser leg from when..."

"STOP! Sherlock, stop it. I'm quite sure I don't want to know that." John said, blushing. Sherlock giggled. He actually giggled.

"Then there is Susan's twin brother... Henry isn't it?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the short, skinny man next to Jean. John nodded but didn't understand where the detective was going with that.

"Henry knows about their affair but keeps it secret. Maybe because he really loves his twin sister, more likely because she is the only one in the family who knows he is gay and he doesn't want to make it public." _That was amazing_ John thought, but didn't say it out loud. While he was still processing all the information, Sherlock finished another glass and refilled it instantly. When John awoke of his trance he sucked in a deep lung full of air and asked, "So, what did you say to them?" Sherlock shrugged. "Just told 'Eddie' that it would be smart to close his zipper when he wanted to keep their affair secret." Now it was John who giggled. "You didn't."

" 'Course I did.", Sherlock answered smiling and soon both of them were nearly toppling over with laughter.

Suddenly a rather grim-looking elderly man approached the bar and gave them a scornful look. "So, you are Dr. Watson, the fella my boy went to St. Bart's with right?", the man snorted. John and Sherlock pulled themselves together and stopped giggling, though neither of them could keep a smile from their face. "Yes, sir.", John answered politely and offered the man his hand, which he pointedly ignored. "You have to be Mike's father!?", John said carefully. The man gave an affirmative grunt. He took a glass of champagne and downed it in one swift move. Then he turned his attention to Sherlock and watched him intently. "And you are the infamous amateur detective the Yard is so fond of." Sherlock said nothing, which was never a good omen, but watched Mike's father drink another glass rather quickly. When Sherlock finally spoke up his voice was icy and arrogant.

"You shouldn't mix morphine with alcohol Mr. Stamford. I'm sure your oncologist informed you about that." Shocked John turned around to face Sherlock, but was immediately distracted when Mr. Stamford choked on the last drops of his drink. Coughing violently the man sank down to his knees. John tapped the man on the back in quick succession until he got the liquid out of his windpipe and sat in the grass, panting heavily.

"Oh dear. What's wrong darling. Are you not feeling well?" John hadn't noticed the arrival of the lovely, white-haired woman until now. Obviously this was Mike's mother. "I'm fine Olivia.", spat Mr. Stamford and made an effort to stand, but his body betrayed him and John just cached him before he could fall down again. "Maybe you should sit down for a little while, Mr. Stamford.", John suggested and the man nodded.

"Oh, and skip the alcohol. Doesn't help the cancer.", came Sherlock's voice from the background.

Blinking rapidly Mrs. Stamford looked at the detective. "How did you know about the cancer? Matthew not even told our children!" John shot Sherlock a murderous look and helped Mr. Stamford stand. "Don't listen to him...", John advised the woman. "Could you help me get him a bit more comfortable?" Confused Mrs. Stamford nodded and stood at the other side of her husband.

Slowly they were making their way back inside, where they sat him down in one of the various cushioned chairs. "Do you want me to call an ambulance?", John asked the couple. Both of them shook their head but Mrs. Stamford asked John to tell Mike where they were. John nodded and headed back to the gardens, telling Mike about his father - not about the cancer of course - and at that opportunity also said his goodbyes. Sherlock had caused enough trouble for one day.

With the intention to find his - again disappeared - flatmate and drag him back home, John walked around the park until he finally saw a familiar figure lying in an even more familiar pose on one of the park benches. "Sherlock. What the hell? You nearly killed that man. What was that all about?" The detective gave no answer, lying perfectly still. "And pick up your damn phone every once in a while, will you? I was looking for you nearly half an hour." Again Sherlock remained silent, his deep, measured breaths the only sign of him being alive. _Probably stuck in his fucking Mind Palace_ John concluded and shook Sherlock's shoulder slightly.

"Stop that.", the dark-haired man finally said, nearly moaning.

"Stop what?", John asked.

"The shaking. Stop it!", Sherlock answered, louder this time. John withdrew his hand and took a good look of his flatmate. The detective was even paler than usual and a few stray dark curls stuck to his forehead, which was covered in a thin film of sweat. John began to worry.

"Sherlock, are you okay?", he asked carefully.

" 'm fine. Perffffectly ffffine." Was Sherlock slurring? What the hell did he do? Nicotine patches? Drugs? _Jesus, please... not drugs..._ John prayed silently.

And then realisation hit him. "Sherlock? How many glasses of that punch did you drink?"

Sherlock shrugged barely visible. "Lossst count..."

"Did you eat anything? Anything at all?", John continued his inquiry. Sherlock shook his head slowly. Of course not. What did John expect. Well, time to get his detective home.

"I'll get us a cab. Can you walk, Sherlock."

" 'coursssee I can walllk..", Sherlock answered, slowly working his body up into a sitting position. With a deep breath he stood unsteady and nearly fell back onto the bench. John sighed and grabbed Sherlock around his waist, dragging the man to the park's exit.

Forty minutes later and with a lot of help from John, Sherlock was tugged in his bed with a large glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand.

"You are not going to throw up, are you?", John asked one last question before he wanted to leave the drunk detective alone.

" Don' be ridiiicuuulousss...", came the week answer from the nearly unconscious man.

"Fine, sleep then." John turned his back to the detective, but Sherlock's voice made him pause once again.

" JAWN! I didn't knowww it wasss alllco..." Sherlock trailed off mid sentence and was instantly sound asleep.

Sighing John closed the bedroom door and sat in his favourite chair in the living room, ready for a long night..

"Of course, Sherlock. Only the most perfect mind of the century could miss that punch usually contains alcohol...", John murmured, even though Sherlock couldn't hear him. And suddenly he had to laugh.


	9. 9 Rat

**A/N: **No animals were harmed during the process of writing this :) Have fun!

**Warnings: **Sherlock crossing yet another line and Ginger (the cat), does what cats do. (nothing explicit)

* * *

**Rat**

_a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"_

Something very strange was going on at 221B Baker Street. Despite the fact that Sherlock's last case had been over a week ago John found his flatmate unusually balanced and in a generally good mood. Sherlock spent a lot of time in his bedroom – sleeping, John assumed – and was absorbed with a new `project` at his microscope all the other time, without complaining about being bored. Odd. It even went so far that Sherlock – for the first time ever – added something to their shopping list, that didn't involve chemicals, and/or body parts. The doctor checked the list one last time.

Milk _THE RIGHT ONE, JOHN!_

Toast

Butter

Jam _ STRAWBERRY!_

Biscuits _MYCROFT'S GOING TO VISIT, SKIP THE BISCIUTS_

Pasta

Beans

Eggs

Apples

Cat food _+LITTER_

_CARROTS, GRAPES, BANANAS, CHEDDAR, YOGHUT (PLAIN), CEREAL_

John raised an eyebrow. HIS flatmate, who usually cared as much about food as about the solar system demanded something to eat? Very strange indeed, but John decided to go with it and enjoy the calm before the storm. The storm, that he was certain was about to come at some point.

When John entered the flat again, packed with four bags of groceries, he found Sherlock pacing around the kitchen, talking to someone on his phone.

"How fast can you have it delivered?... Excellent!... Yes, Baker Street... 221B Baker Street... Oh, no, no, the standard model will suffice nicely... Yes... Of course... Thank you!"

John shot Sherlock a questioning look. "Experiment.", was the only answer the doctor got, before Sherlock vanished into his bedroom again. "Sure, what else...", John murmured and started to put the shopping away.

This day John didn't see Sherlock again, except for the two minutes it took the detective to accept a large parcel from a slightly overwhelmed delivery boy.

Hours later John knocked on Sherlock's door. "Sherlock?", he asked carefully.

"Go away, I'm busy!"

John sighed and quietly asked himself why exactly he bothered to put up with his insufferable flatmate at all. '_Because he's worth it and makes your life so much more exciting'_ his mind pointed out. "Yeah right... that's why", John murmured.

"Listen Sherlock. I'm going out, okay. Just don't set anything on fire, or blow up the flat, alright?", he tried again.

"Fine.", the detective answered. Shaking his head John turned away from the door and grabbed his jacket. He was pretty sure Sherlock hadn't listened to one single word he said but was proved wrong, when the bedroom door opened and Sherlock stuck his head out, giving John a 'once over'.

"Don't take her to Venga's, they are suffering a plague of vermin at the moment." With that advice Sherlock disappeared again, giving John no opportunity to ask about the vermin, or how exactly he knew where the doctor was going to take his date.

The day's carried on, without a word from Lestrade and without any client's worth Sherlock's precious time. Instead the detective kept up with his odd behaviour of hiding in his bedroom and analysing something on his microscope on occasion.

It was John now who gradually grew bored. Bored and worried. In all the time the doctor knew Sherlock, the detective had never spent this amount of time on a single experiment. Furthermore Sherlock was unusually secretive about it all, which was very suspicious. Normally John was able to get at least a few hints out of his flatmate on what the man was working on. Not this time though. In addition John could hear piano music coming from the detective's bedroom very frequently. And not any kind of music, mind you, but Mozart. Sherlock despised Mozart. All that, and the fact that at least once a day a parcel was delivered to Sherlock, left John more than slightly irritated. Whatever the detective was up to, John was sure he wouldn't approve, if he knew.

After nearly a week of idleness Lestrade finally called and demanded Sherlock's help on a case. Oddly enough it took the DI a while to convince Sherlock that this case was not a waste of his precious time. As it turned out though, the case of a vicious double murder kept Sherlock busy for exactly seven minutes. After overlooking the crime scene, he rattled off a string of deductions at nearly inhuman speed and advised Lestrade to arrest the ex nanny.

On the taxi ride home John tried once again to get some information about the experiment out of his flatmate.

"So what exactly are you doing locked up in your bedroom all day?", John asked with an impish grin. Sherlock shrugged. "You know… this and that…", he answered evasively. John decided to take the risk of offending the detective and vocalised what was on his mind for days now.

"Please just tell me that it's nothing illegal!", he asked, the implication thick in his voice. Sherlock gave John an intense look that made his blood rush to his cheeks. After a few moments of … pondering? consideration?... Sherlock let out a deep sigh and answered. "Don't be ridiculous John. If I'd wanted to get some drugs I'd just buy them. It's a lot less effort. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get the right …"

"Alright, alright!", John raised his hands defensively. "Just forget that I asked, okay?" Sherlock smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. Therefore the two men spent the rest of the ride in brooding silence.

Back at Baker Street Sherlock stormed into their flat and froze when he found his bedroom door slightly ajar. When the detective opened the door completely John could hear a disgustingly squealing noise, shortly followed by Sherlock's shouting. "No, no, noooo…Oh for god's sake you stupid creature… Get out! GET. OUT." A clearly frightened red cat left Sherlock's bedroom at immense speed, carrying something undefinable in her mouth. Puzzled John followed Sherlock into his room, where he found the detective kneeling on the floor, holding something in his hand and muttering, "No, no, no…" over and over again. John let his eyes wander across the room. Books where scattered all over the bed and an odd wood construction, which looked suspiciously like a huge labyrinth, was erected on the floor. On Sherlock's desk rested his laptop together with two small cages. As far as John could see the cages where open and empty. A nasty feeling spread out in John's stomach and when he approached the still kneeling detective his fears were confirmed. In his large hands Sherlock held a rodent of some sort, looking at it at totally lost. The blood drained from John's face.

"Is that a mouse?", he asked quietly, to shocked to be angry.

"Don't be stupid, John.", Sherlock answered equally hushed.

"But it LOOKS like a mouse to me!"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's a rat. Well, the cadaver of a rat now, to be specific." John opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of the water, unable to find the right words. After what felt like an eternity the anger won over the initial shock and John shouted, "What the hell did you do with a rat in your bedroom, Sherlock? You of all people should know that they carry all kinds of …"

"Experiment…", Sherlock murmured. "It was an experiment."

John could not believe what he was hearing. "An experiment? You keep a rat in your bedroom to experiment on it? That's… that's just… unbelievable."

"Two…", the detective admitted meekly.

"What?", John asked confused.

"Two! It had been two rats. They are usually living in groups."

John took a deep breath, fighting the urge to grab Sherlock and shake some sense into the genius.

"Okay. I want you to tell me exactly what you did with them! And, Sherlock, I swear, if you tested any substances on them, or harmed these animals in any other way you can look for a new flatmate." Sherlock shook his head.

"Music.", was all he said.

"Music?", John asked confused.

"Yes, John. Music. I tested the effect of music on them. Specifically the effect it has on the memory of adaptive creatures. I even went so far as to play Mozart, which is totally overrated if you ask me." John looked at the other man, stunned. He had heard that particular music was supposed to raise the brain function, especially the memory, but that was …. He still couldn't believe that Sherlock had tested his theories on living animals.

"So what? You played Mozart and…?", John asked further.

"Not only Mozart, but yes. I played music and stopped the time it took them to get to the end of the labyrinth. I did it with and without the music, testing the female rat against the male, comparing the results…." Sherlock trailed off. Finally standing up he put the dead rat in a plastic bag. "Now all the work was for nothing. Stupid cat. Remember me John, why do we STILL have that thing?" John couldn't fight a grin.  
"Because YOU insisted on keeping her." Sherlock grunted but didn't object.

"I guess I just have to start over again. I wonder if the guys at Venga's still have a few rats left." John shook his head vehemently.

"No, Sherlock. You will definitely NOT get another couple of rats. Or mice, or ANY OTHER animal, do you hear me?"

"But…", the detective looked at John, almost pleadingly.

"NO! No more experiments on animals. Not now, not ever, do you understand." Sherlock looked at John for a long time, weighing his options. Finally he let out a deep sigh.  
"Fine. No more animal experiments."

"Promised?", John asked and Sherlock nodded reluctantly. Relieved John was about to leave Sherlock to his task of cleaning up the mess, when he remembered something the detective had said.

"Hang on. You said there had been a second rat, right?" Sherlock nodded absently.

"Where is it then?", the doctor asked alarmed.

Before Sherlock could answer they heard the telltale 'Whoo-hooo' that spoke of Mrs. Hudson's arrival. The men could hear her voice coming from the living room.

"Oh, hello Ginger, dear. Well, what do we have here? Did the boys give you a nice little toy to play with? Come on, let me see. … Oh my…" Both men flinched, knowing exactly what their landlady just found.

"SHERLOCK!"

_'Well, at least he has the decency to look terribly guilty'_, John thought before Mrs. Hudson stormed into the bedroom, furious.


	10. 10 Bow

**A/N: **YES. I can assure you, I'm still alive and NO I've not given up on this thing either. I just did a lot more reading than writing lately. Sorry for that.

The title of this was probably not hard to guess after the last two stories. However, it took me an awful long time to figure out what it will be about. Well it's probably not anywhere near as spectacular as you might have anticipated. Anyways. Here it is.

And, of course, I wish all of you out there a merry and peaceful Christmas and happy holidays with your families.

**Warnings: **As I am, obviously, not English (not even close), so I'm not very familiar with Christmas customs in Britain. Therefore I … well sort of skipped a lot of them. Hope you like it anyways.

* * *

**Bow**

_a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"_

"Come on John, we are almost at home." Sherlock said impatiently, barely able to refrain from rolling his eyes at the doctor.

"Yes, thank you. I know that. I'm living there too you kn…" John's snippy remark was cut short, as he slipped – not for the first time today – and ungracefully fell on his bottom. Sherlock did roll his eyes this time. The tall man elegantly walked back to his friend, completely unimpressed by the current weather conditions.

The unusually cold and harsh weather in mid-December left part of the citizens giddy with the prospect of a white Christmas, while the other part was just irritated by the inconvenience the conditions brought. John definitely belonged to the latter. At least since this afternoon, when a certain dark-haired detective had dragged him out of his comfortable chair and kept him running – or sliding – on the snowy streets of London on the hunt for a petty criminal. And while – admittedly – they got hold of the man, John's patience had run out long ago. Approximately after the third time he'd fallen on his arse while trying to keep up with Sherlock, who – what else – didn't even had slipped once.

Eager to get back to their comfortable and first and foremost WARM flat, John picked himself up from the freezing ground, without accepting the helping hand of the other man. While he tried to shake the melting snow off his clothes the doctor found Sherlock looking around with a vacant expression. Knowing that look John sighed.

"Come on Sherlock. Let's get home before I'm freezing to death!", he prompted, but Sherlock stand rooted in place, staring at the illuminated streets. "Sher…"

"Look at that, John." The doctor looked around, almost automatically, but couldn't find anything alarming. He raised an eyebrow in silent question.

"What's the purpose of all these lights? I don't understand it.", Sherlock elaborated. John shrugged, but couldn't suppress a small laugh at Sherlock's genuine puzzlement.

"It's going to be Christmas in a few days, Sherlock. And these…", John pointed to the lit figures that surrounded them, hanging from the wires and houses on the street, "… are Christmas lights." Sherlock, still bearing no sign that he would move anytime soon, waved his hands dismissively.

"Ah, Christmas. Christmas is b…"

"Boring, yes, I know, Sherlock." John sighed, his breath forming little puffs of white fog.

"I don't see why people are so fond of this. It's utterly useless and a waste of effort and money." Sherlock continued.

"Yes…." John really wanted to do nothing more than go home and get a really hot shower. "Listen, maybe we could talk about the uselessness of Christmas and all that comes with it at home, where it is dry and WARM!"

"Fine.", Sherlock shrugged. "But I still don't get it." With that the detective took off in the general direction of Baker Street, leaving his loyal Blogger once again sliding and struggling behind him.

_Four days later_

On the morning of Christmas Eve (?), Sherlock was rapidly typing on his laptop, groaning in exasperation every now and then, when the elderly landlady announced her presence with her typical "Wooo hoo…"

"Sherlock, dear, I made some Mince Pies and thought maybe you'd like to…" The landlady stopped mid-sentence, taking in her surroundings. Despite Sherlock's obvious annoyance with holidays in general and Christmas in particular, she and John had decorated the flat nicely and even managed to get a small Christmas tree set up. Afterwards the both of them cleaned up the flat neatly. John even made the effort to rid the desk of loose papers and old case files. Yesterday everything was in order and prepared for Christmas celebrations.

At the moment though the flat and especially the desk, which Sherlock occupied, looked like a craft shop after a severe bombing. Scattered all around the flat were different kinds of ribbons, wrapping papers, rolls of tape, boxes, bags and the like. In the middle of it a red cat was happily playing around, tearing the paper to pieces, chasing after discarded ribbon rolls and hiding in the smallest of paper bags.

Shell-shocked Mrs. Hudson put the tray of Mince Pies safely away at the kitchen, before approaching Sherlock.

"Dear God, Sherlock. What are you doing?"

With another groan, the detective closed his laptop – not at all gently – and snapped at his landlady.

"I'm not DOING anything. I try to, but it won't work. Why can't people just observe!" Mrs. Hudson took a step back from the enraged detective but his anger didn't last.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. It's not your fault that I hate Christmas.", Sherlock said with a deep sigh. Utter frustration was clearly visible in his features as he dropped his head into his hands and ruffled his hair.

Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in a calming gesture.

"Well, dear. What is it you are TRYING to do then?", she asked.

"It doesn't matter. It's pointless anyway.", Sherlock answered, not very convincingly. Clearly, whatever it was did matter; otherwise Sherlock wouldn't have made such a fuss, but obviously he was not willing to fill his landlady in.

"Well, if you don't want to tell me, that's fine Sherlock. If I'm not the right person for this maybe John could help." Sherlock didn't answer but shook his head. "Where is he, actually?" Mrs. Hudson asked. As far as she knew the 'boys' were supposed to come to dinner that night.

"Nursery. Had to take an extra shift. Will be back at six.", came the short reply.

"I see… well I'll leave you to it then I guess and I'll see you around eight." With that Mrs. Hudson attempted to leave the flat, but was held back as Sherlock grabbed her arm carefully.

"Mrs. Hudson?", the detective asked innocently, looking like an utterly lost boy.

"What is it dear?"

"How do I tie a bow?", he asked barely audible. Confused Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock.

"What do you mean a bow?"

Sherlock sighed. "A BOW, Mrs. Hudson. For a …", he paused, looking uncertain. "… for a present.", he finally spat out, as if the word alone caused him severe pain.

"Oh…" Mrs. Hudson mouthed surprised, but wisely enough chose not to pry any further.

"There are hundreds of descriptions and tutorials on the net, but somehow I find it impossible to do it. How can something so mundane be that hard?"

The landlady smiled kindly and took the detectives hand.

"Would you like me to show you, love?"

Without a moment's hesitation Sherlock repeated the words John had said to him all this time ago.

"Oh, god yes!"

_Later that evening_

"Well, well. That was nice, wasn't it Sherlock.", John asked, stretching out on his chair and patting his well filled tummy.

"Mhm…", was the only reply the doctor got, before the detective picked up his violin and started to tune it. With the help of Mrs. Hudson Sherlock had managed to accomplish his goal and cleaned up the flat again before John had returned from the nursery.

They had their dinner and even Sherlock had to admit it was quite nice. Now it was well after midnight, when the detective started to play an alluring, gentle melody on his violin. One John had never heard before, which wasn't too surprising.

Contently John listened to Sherlock's play, and was about to doze off, until a quiet, retching sound brought him back to reality. Sherlock, equally startled, stopped the playing and turned to look at John, confused. The doctor shrugged, indicating that he wasn't the source of the noise. Which left only one inhabitant. Soon both of them were looking around the flat in search for the red-coated cat. Sherlock found her first, sitting under the Christmas tree and gagging on something that was most definitely not a hairball.

"No, no, no, noooo….", Sherlock yelled. "You stupid cat…." He tried to get hold of the animal, but of course Ginger was a lot faster and made a beeline for the open door of the flat.

John got closer to his friend who had knelt on the floor, muttering "stupid, stupid.." all over again.

"Oh come on Sherlock. It's not unusual for cats to throw up every now and then. They have to get rid of the hair somehow. It's not the end of the world." Sherlock shook his head. Not interested in the small, dark blue puddle the cat left he clutched something to his chest.

"She ate it, John. She… just ate it… How could she do that?"

Only now John took a closer look at what Ginger left behind and wrinkled his nose slightly in disgust.

"What is that?", he asked after a minute.

"The bow, John. It is the bow.", Sherlock answered looking sad. John didn't understand.

"Bow? What bow?"

"The bow from…", Sherlock paused, looking down at his lap. John followed the eyes of his friend and saw a present lying in Sherlock's hands, neatly wrapped and well … obviously missing a bow.

"That's a present.", John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's habit of stating the obvious.

"Who gave it to you?", John asked confused, but not without a small smile in his face.

Sherlock sighed. "Nobody gave it to ME, John. I'm giving it to YOU." The detective held out the present to John, without daring to look him in the eyes.

"YOU got a present for ME?", John asked stupidly, unable to believe what he just heard.

"Well if you don't want it, I…", Sherlock muttered, unusually self-conscious.

"No, no. I mean. Yes, of course. I DO want it. 'course…" Carefully John took the present out of Sherlock's hands and looked at it in utter amazement. He still couldn't believe that Sherlock bloody Holmes bought HIM a Christmas present.

"Merry Christmas, John." Sherlock said, raising from the floor and walking to his bedroom without another word.

Still a bit shocked John examined the rectangular box in his hand. Taped on the wrapping paper was a small card.

_For John. The world's second consulting detective, doctor, soldier, blogger and most loyal friend. Merry Christmas. SH_

Carefully John unwrapped the present, not entirely able to ignore the tears that burned in his eyes. He opened the box, finding yet another piece of paper. _'For the cold and atrocious London winters.'_ , it said. Curious John peeled away the thin paper which covered the actual present. Inside the box the doctor found a scarf and a pair of gloves, knitted out of incredibly soft, dark blue wool and without doubt amazingly warm.

Holding the soft items in his hands John allowed a single tear to escape his eyes, simultaneously a small, giddy smile showed on his face.

"Christmas is boring, hm?", he murmured. "I don't think so."


	11. 11 S

**A/N: **Yes, it took forever. Yes, I'm sorry. Yes, I know I say that every time. Anyway. Three things.

1.) At this rate I'll probably be around eighty when I manage to publish story number 365, but I'll be happy anyway.

2.) I'm attempting something new here. The chapters 11-37 (God help me) will be pretty Sherlock-centric, so be warned. Also when I've finished them you should be able to see a pattern in the chapter titles. (Does that even make sense?) Well, you'll see.

3.) A big thank you and an even bigger hug for everyone who is still with me. Every review, fav and follow makes me insanely happy. Thank you all for that.

**Warnings: **a bit of swearing from both of our boys, a little intimate moment that can or can not be seen as the beginning of "something", nothing we didn't already see though.

Enjoy!

**11. Sore**

_a novella of "365 days at 221B Baker Street"_

John watched Sherlock carefully as he exited the cab and walked the few steps towards their legendary black door. Something was wrong. Utterly wrong. The usually so graceful and fluid motions of the detective were uncommonly slow and ... somehow forced.

John couldn't put a finger on it, couldn't tell for sure, but something was wrong. Anybody who didn't know the detective as well as John did, wouldn't see a difference in his friend's behaviour, but John was good at reading Sherlock. He had to be. He had learned to be. Because, of course, the world's only consulting – and most stubborn - detective would never, ever willingly admit that something was wrong. Even if there was. And right now there obviously WAS.

John paid the cabbie and followed the other man into the hallway of 221 Baker Street before confronting him.

"Tell me what's wrong!", John demanded in his best Captain John H. Watson tone. Not that _that_ tone ever worked on Sherlock, mind you, but it was worth a try.

"There's nothing wrong."

For a brief moment John was reminded of the conversation they had in Baskerville. The way Sherlock practically freaked out over exactly the same question. _There is nothing wrong with me!_ Seeing that Sherlock was nowhere near a panic attack like in Baskerville, but was also not going to answer the question, John pried further.  
"Just tell me.", the doctor said with a barely concealed sigh.

"No." Sherlock said and turned around towards the staircase.

No? Did he just say _no_? Not _I'm fine_. Not _Nothing's wrong_. Just _No_! Sherlock's mouth may have said _No_ but the meaning behind this simple word was far more revealing than anything else the detective could have said. It didn't mean '_No, John, don't worry, everything is perfectly fine'_. Oh no. It meant _'Yes, John. There's definitely something wrong , but me and my massive intellect are perfectly able to deal with it, so NO I won't tell you what it is.'_

John was not a very religious man, but right now he prayed for patience with this insufferable man. John grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, to keep him from ascending the stairs.  
"Sherlock!", he said with a clear warning in his voice.

The detective turned around, taking just one, perfectly controlled step, and looked John straight in the eyes. Using their difference in height Sherlock loomed over his friend, their bodies almost touching. Very consciously dropping his voice, Sherlock said just one word, that made the doctors knees go weak.

"John!"

Good God!, John thought. He'd invaded Afghanistan, sure, but sometimes… just sometimes he wished that Sherlock wouldn't know exactly how to manipulate the people around him. Better yet, sometimes John just wished he was immune to the piercing eyes and the deep, rumbling, almost feline, voice. But he wasn't. No, he definitely wasn't immune. Not immune and, also, shamefully aware that Sherlock could possibly read John's reaction like an open book. The doctor tried very hard not to gulp, not to shiver, not to back down. If just those damn eyes wouldn't be so freaking…

"Whooo-hooo. Everything alright with you boys?" Mrs. Hudson's cheerful voice destroyed the almost intimate moment, as Sherlock's eyes flickered to their landlady and John was released from the spell they put on him.

With a rare, genuine smile Sherlock turned to the old lady and said, "Of course. Everything's perfectly fine, isn't it, John?" Once again Sherlock turned towards the stairs, not without giving John a mischievous smirk.

The doctor knew when he was beaten and sighed. "Yes. Fine.", he shot towards Sherlock who was ascending the staircase, one step after another, every move perfectly controlled.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson." John also gave her, what he hoped was, a reassuring smile and followed Sherlock up the stairs and into the living room, where he found the detective already sprawled on the couch, eyes closed and not moving a single muscle.

Carefully approaching the detective, John sat down at the edge of the coffee table and watched his friend, looking for any telltale sign of injury. They'd been separated for a few hours, during their last case, after all. Hours in which Sherlock, successfully, hunted down a suspect and delivered him to the Yard. Hours in which the detective could have taken a beating, or could have fallen off a roof, or could have sprained his bloody ankle for all John knew. Still John couldn't detect any obvious injuries on his friend. On the other hand, this was Sherlock, _bloody_, Holmes, the man who could probably hide a gunshot wound. Again John sighed.

"Come on Sherlock. I'm a doctor... and your friend. Just tell me what's wrong and we'll sort it out." No reaction came from the sulking man. John tried again, using just one, magic word.

"Please?!"

Sherlock sighed, but again didn't answer. Opening his eyes and rolling them dramatically Sherlock got up and walked into the kitchen, but without being able to hide a small wince, when doing so. Silently John watched his friend while he frantically searched several cupboards. Obviously not finding, what he was looking for, Sherlock muttered something under his breath, grabbed two bananas from the fruit bowl and ate them in quick succession.

John's jaw dropped. Sherlock was eating? Voluntarily? Something was definitely not right with this picture. As much as John enjoyed to see Sherlock giving in to his body's needs once in a while, it made him even more suspicious.

" We could get some takeaway, if you're hungry, you know.", John suggested, still watching his friend carefully.

"No. Not particularly hungry, no. Just ... ", Sherlock trailed off. John raised an eyebrow, while joining the detective in the kitchen.

"Just?", he asked after a while. Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"Well, obviously Bananas are supposed to be rich in magnesium and apparently that's what the transport needs every now and again. Besides, the case is finished, so it's probably fine to eat something, right?"

John just looked at Sherlock. He couldn't even start to describe how very wrong a few parts of what Sherlock just had said felt. It's probably fine to eat? _Probably_? John shook his head absent-mindedly. He would never be able to understand the man and his strange eating habits. Never. What raised John's interest more though, was something else.

"Magnesium?", he asked puzzled. Sherlock remained silent, looking at the fruit bowl, contemplating if it would be safe to eat another banana without making himself sick. No, probably not.

"Sherlock?" John didn't give up. "What about the magnesium?"

Sherlock's attention snapped back to his flatmate. Sarcastically he answered. "Electrolytes John. Sodium, Chloride, Potassium, Magnesium, Phosphate, Calcium. The body needs them. Surely you know that, right? Isn't that something a doctor should know?"

"Of course I _know_ that!", John answered, barely able to keep the anger out of his voice.

"Good.", Sherlock said, turning his back to the doctor. All he wanted to do, though he would never admit that, was to take a long, hot bath and get some rest, without John questioning his every move. Apparently he was out of luck today, because, once again John grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, stopping him from leaving the kitchen.

"Sherlock, please. I might not be a super genius, but I am your friend and a doctor. I can tell that something is wrong. Just tell me what happened, will you?"

"Nothing happened.", Sherlock spat angrily, without turning around. "I chased the suspect, I got him, I brought him in. End of story."

"And you got yourself injured during that!" It wasn't a question. Surprisingly Sherlock answered nevertheless.

"No, I didn't.", he said, still not facing John, his posture straight but strained.

"No?", John asked suspiciously.

"No." Sherlock answered, the clenched fists at his side betraying his calm voice.

"Fine." John's patience was running thin. "Don't tell me then. I'm just your friend, why would you tell me what's hurting you?" As soon as he said the words John braced himself for an answer he already had gotten once. _I don't have friends._ Instead of the hurtful words though, Sherlock murmured something unintelligible.

"What was that?", John asked spitefully.

"Everything." Sherlock repeated slowly and it almost seemed like that was all the answer John would get. After a few heartbeats though, Sherlock drew a deep breath, his body literary shaking with anger. In that tiny moment before the detective spoke again, John knew he had gone to far. He'd poked a wounded jaguar with a stick, repeatedly. Now he had to deal with the roaring animal, that slumbered in his best friend. And roar he did indeed.

Forcefully tearing his arm out of John's grip, Sherlock spun around, invading the doctor's personal space yet again. Locking his feral eyes at the blond man, Sherlock started to speak, his voice dangerously low.

"I said _everything,_ doctor. Every bloody muscle in my godforsaken body hurts. That's what happens when you chase a criminal across London for hours, but you wouldn't know, because you'd be out of breath after a few minutes, wouldn't you? Anyway. Now I'd just love to take a bath and get some sleep..."

John tried to interrupt the detectives rant, but Sherlock would have nothing of it.

"YES. SLEEP, John. So I'd really appreciate it if you'd stop pestering me. Do whatever you'd like. Go to that damn date with that stupid teacher, for all I care, but_ leave... me... the... hell... alone!_"

John swallowed, hard. Several ugly remarks lay on the tip of his tongue as he watched Sherlock storming off in the direction of the bathroom, but John knew better, than to say any of them. With a deep sigh, he decided it'd be for the best to let the angry detective cool off for a few hours. John knew how hard it was for Sherlock to admit any weaknesses, therefore the doctors anger vaporized quickly, when he heard a small groan and the splashing of water from the bathroom. Sherlock was after all Sherlock. John had known from the beginning that it would be an endless challenge to live and work with that remarkable man. He couldn't blame him for this outburst... much.

After preparing a cup of tea for himself and placing a few things on the coffee table, John retreated to his room for the night.

* * *

Two hours and several re-fillings of the bathtub later a thoroughly soaked detective emerged from the bathroom, wrapped only in a towel. His motions less forced, but still with a fair amount of soreness in his muscles, Sherlock entered the living room. Relieved he noticed, that John had apparently gone to bed already. Good. He didn't want to deal with him right now.

Deciding whether he should go to his bed, or just crash on the sofa, Sherlock stood in the barely lit living room, when his eyes fell on something on the coffee table. Something that hadn't been there before. Several things, to be specific. Two pills, a big glass filled with a disturbingly orange liquid, and a note, to be precise.

Sherlock took the note and read.

_Don't worry. I'm not going to poison you, though you'd probably deserve it, you git._

_It's Paracetamol for the pain and a sports drink for balancing the electrolytes you are so keen on. _

_Take the pills, drink that stuff and for god's sake get some sleep in your BED! That's an order from your doctor!_

_- John_

Smiling Sherlock tossed back the pills and drank down the disgustingly sweet liquid with a few big gulps. Not bothering to take the glass back to the sink, he picked up his phone, marched into his bedroom and practically collapsed on his bed.

* * *

The buzzing of his phone brought John back from the blissfully dreamless realm of sleep. Quietly he cursed his luck. It had taken him almost an hour to fall asleep in the first place. Sighing he picked up his mobile. 'One new message', it said. John opened it and read, a grin spreading out on his face.

After that he had no trouble going back to sleep, because he knew that everything would be all right in the morning.

The message read:

_If you were really trying to poison me, doctor, you'll actually find my corpse in my bed in the morning. Until then, good night, John. And thank you. - SH_


	12. 12 T

**A/N: **I'll just stop apologising for my laziness, okay? Okay. As to not spoil the topic of the Story, I'll reveal the keyword/Chapter title at the end of the story.

Nothing more to say here. :) Have fun with the boys.

**Warnings: **none

* * *

**12. T….**

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"_

With a jolt John startled awake. Heart pounding rapidly he lay still for a few seconds, trying to get his senses together. His bedroom was dark. _Still night then,_ John decided and confirmed this with a look at the red-glowing numbers of the alarm clock on his bedside table. 03:26. Yes, definitely still the middle of the night. But what had woken him up? John tried to recall if there had been a dream, a nightmare. Nothing. _Strange, _John decided. Usually there were three reasons for him waking up in the middle of the night. First: nightmares. Well, he'd eliminated that. Second: a trip to the loo. John considered it, but came to the conclusion that, no, he didn't need to go that urgently. Which left only one other possibility. Sherlock.

John listened carefully. Nothing, there was nothing. Neither sounds of the bloody violin, nor a consulting detective who trampled around the flat. No suspicious smells either, so apparently Sherlock didn't try to burn down the house again or was experimenting with some sort of - potentially poisonous - gas. What? Don't give me that look. Yes, it happened before, though Sherlock would insist it had been an accident... all five times. However.

Sensing no immediate danger, John was about to fall asleep again, when he heard low swearing from the rooms below. Swearing? Sherlock? Really? Suddenly wide awake, the doctor jumped out of his bed and down the stairs, to the spacious living room, which was dark and empty of any lanky detectives. An annoyed sigh made John spin around, and there, in the barely lit kitchen, he found the reason for both, the swearing and his wake-up-call.

In the midst of hundreds of shards - of what had probably been a flask of some kind – stood Sherlock. Only dressed in wet, loose-fitting pyjama pants and clearly surprised, the detective wore an expression of genuine puzzlement. John would have been tempted to laugh, had he not noticed the look of sheer exasperation on his flatmate's face. John walked into the kitchen. Thankful for the slippers he wore as he went over the crunching shards, he took hold of Sherlock's shoulders and shook the man slightly.

"Sherlock. What happened? Are you hurt?" Still looking a bit lost, Sherlock looked at John.

"Experiment. Gone wrong.", he provided slowly.

"Yes. Yes, I can see that. Are you hurt?", John repeated.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Are you sure? I mean, you are covered in... I don't know…Stuff. It's not dangerous, is it? Toxic? Acidic?"

Finally snapping out of his rigour Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, John. Why would I work with something like that without the proper safety equipment? It's Diethylene glycol monomethyl ether, that's all." John rolled his eyes.

"Di..hylo..mono..what?", he asked uncomprehending.

"Diethylene glycol monomethyl ether.", Sherlock repeated the tongue twister without any effort, shaking his head slightly at John's ignorance. "Basically a kind of alcohol. Not toxic.", he explained at last.

"Fine. Good.", John said relieved. "Nothing's hurt then?"

Sherlock just shot him a look.

"Okay. Where are your shoes?", the doctor asked.

"Bedroom." Sherlock answered shortly.

"Fine. Stay put.", John ordered, rushing off to Sherlock's room to fetch the detective's slippers.

By the time John re-entered the kitchen Sherlock was already halfway through the kitchen, moving shards out of his way with his bare feet. In retrospect it probably wasn't the best idea to distract the man, but John didn't think about it when he cried out the detective's name.

"Sherlock!", John said, alarm evident in his voice.

Reacting purely on instinct Sherlock spun around, not stopping on his way to the living room, which was, of course, a big mistake.

With a suppressed cry Sherlock lifted his right foot, which was peppered with glass, a thin trail of blood running slowly towards his toes.

"Ah shit.", John exclaimed. "Don't move!", he instructed, while running to his flatmate. With his slipper-covered feet John tried to move the remaining shards out of his friend's way, while simultaneously keeping the detective steady by grabbing him by his bare shoulders.

"Put your shoes on, then we'll get you to the sofa and I'll take care of that foot!", John demanded.

After an awkward minute of shuffling and hopping around, John managed to get his lanky, half-naked flatmate on the sofa without causing any more injuries to either of them. Sherlock lay sprawled out on the soft cushions, his right leg carefully propped up on a pillow, the other dangling lazily over the edge. Had it not been for the utterly annoyed expression on his face, one might have thought the detective was taking a nap.

"Sit tight now, I'm just going to fetch some stuff, all right?", John finally said. Sherlock muttered something that could have been an affirmative and John decided that this was probably as good an answer as he would get and hurried back to his room, where he kept his medical supplies.

Equipped with a pair of tweezers, an antiseptic, several gauze swabs and bandages the doctor re-entered the living room, relieved to find his friend in exactly the same position as moments ago. John had half expected to find him back in the kitchen, or picking at his foot, or doing something else completely stupid. Genius or not, you really never knew with Sherlock.

" All right, let's take a look at that, shall we? Do you mind sitting up a bit?", John asked and sat down on the armrest of the sofa. Sherlock didn't move an inch. John sighed.

"Come on Sherlock. We need to get these shards out.", John tried again.

With a deep-drawn sigh Sherlock finally sat up, his injured leg still resting on the cushion, and held a hand out to John. The doctor gave him a questioning look.

"Give me the tweezers, John. I'll do it myself.", the detective explained at last.

"You want to do it yourself?", John asked disbelieving. Sherlock nodded.

"Sherlock. Don't get me wrong, but you NEVER do anything yourself….except it is for a case, of course." Again, Sherlock sighed.

"Just give it to me, will you?"

"No, Sherlock. I won't. I am a bloody doctor and I will take a look at your foot. NOW!", John urged.

"Oh come on John. It's nothing serious. I am perfectly able to take care of a few glass shards myself." John couldn't believe what he heard. Why was Sherlock so stubborn all of a sudden. It was not like John hadn't patched him up before. Well, John could be just as stubborn.

" Let's make that MY decision okay? It's that, or A&E. Your choice." The one thing Sherlock has learnt in his time with John was, that it was no good arguing with the man when he was in his 'doctor-mode'. So he gritted his teeth and gave in.

"Fine. Do as you like.", the detective said, offering his leg to John.

Sherlock's body was beyond tense, while John carefully pulled out the shards, but he voiced no complaint. At least not until John was finished with the tweezers and started wiping the injured area with disinfectant. The moment the gauze swab touched him, Sherlock withdrew his leg with a jerk that nearly made John fall off the sofa.

"What the … Sherlock!", John cried surprised. Sherlock just sat there, holding his foot with an unreadable expression. "I'm sorry if I hurt you. I didn't mean to…", John said, as soon as he got back his balance, but Sherlock shook his head.

"You didn't. It's not your fault.", Sherlock answered, still clutching his slightly bleeding foot in his hands. John shook his head in exasperation.

"Of course it's not my fault. It wasn't me who broke the bloody flask and thought it was a brilliant idea to walk over the shards without shoes. Definitely not MY fault." John's patience was running thin. It was 4 o'clock in the morning and he just wanted to get this over with. With a sigh he motioned Sherlock to re-take his former position, but the detective didn't comply.

"Sherlock, listen. I'm sorry, okay. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just tired, so can we finish this, please?", John said.

"I can't do this, John.", Sherlock answered, almost to quiet to hear.

"You can't do what?", John asked.

"This.", Sherlock answered. First gesturing then to his foot.

"Well, I'm sorry if it hurts a bit, but it has to be done Sherlock. I need to clean the cuts and bandage your foot. I'm sure you can handle a little bit of stinging.", John tried again.

"It doesn't hurt." Sherlock explained. "Much.", he added after another second.

"What's the problem then?"

"Just… just give me the swab and I'll do it myself, okay?", Sherlock answered evasively. _Did he just stutter? Sherlock, really? _John wondered. Sherlock didn't stutter, or stumble over his words. He was Mister eloquence. Unless the subject was something really personal - or really stupid for that matter - and he didn't want John to find out.

"What are you not telling me?", John asked after a few moments.

"Nothing. It's all fine.", Sherlock answered.

"It's obviously NOT fine, Sherlock, so tell me." John demanded. What followed was an awkward silence. Long enough for John to come to his own conclusions.

"Good God. You are not carrying anything contagious in your blood, are you?", John asked horrified.

Sherlock looked at him surprised. "What? Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"What is it then?"

Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible.

"Come again?", John prompted.

"It tickles." Sherlock admitted at last, looking John straight in the eye as if daring him to laugh. John really tried very hard to keep a straight face, but he couldn't suppress a small giggle.

"You are ticklish? Really? That's what all the fuss is about? Just because your feet are ticklish?"

"Not only my feet." Sherlock said, mortified, his high cheekbones flushing in embarrassment. Detecting the honest distress in his flatmate's features John grew serious again.

"Ehm.. Okay, fine. I'll tell you what to do, and you can clean the cuts yourself, all right?" Grateful Sherlock agreed.

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock's foot was disinfected and wrapped in a thin, white bandage. John had swept the kitchen's floor, while Sherlock remained motionless on the sofa, lost in his own little world. That git.

"Well, I'm going back to bed then. Don't walk around too much in that leg and try not to break something else, will you?", John said in the general direction of the sofa. When he received no answer, he walked over, suspecting that the detective had fallen asleep, but Sherlock's eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.

"Sherlock?", John tried again, but once more he didn't get a reaction out of his companion. With a wicked smile John decided to use his new knowledge and tease the trying man a bit. One finger raised threatening he was determined to poke Sherlock in his very prominent ribs, when the detective suddenly snapped out of his coma and practically jumped out of John's reach.

"Don't you dare. Don't you ever dare to do that, John Watson." Sherlock cried angrily.

John almost fell over from laughter. Suddenly he realised that Sherlock had given him a very, very powerful weapon.

* * *

**Keyword: **Ticklish


	13. 13 I

**A/N: **That one was a lot more fun, than it should have been. Thanks to all of you for the favs/follows/reviews. It means the world :)

**Warnings: **swearing, drugs, medical stuff, a bit of fun, a bit of angst (yeah,okay, lots and lots of angst), sexual innuendos (not really though, well one), a tiny bit of sick!Sherlock and doctor!John. Probably a T+ rating, just to be sure. You have been warned :)

* * *

**I…**

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"_

John was in the midst of seeing a patient, when his phone buzzed for the first time. Ignoring it he went on with his examination. When his phone buzzed two more times John got a little bit distracted though. Not that it was an uncommon occurrence that he received texts from his favourite consulting detective every other minute, far from it. Sherlock had to be entertained constantly when he wasn't working on a case, or conducting some sort of experiment. And THAT exactly was the problem right now, because Sherlock HAD a case. A 'pretty promising' one in fact. At least that's what Sherlock had said, when he stormed out of the flat this morning, abandoning his tea and the experiment he was working on without a second thought and leaving poor Lestrade to run after him.

That was the reason why - when his mobile went off for the fourth time - John got just a slightly bit concerned and tried to excuse himself.

"I'm very sorry Mr. Prett. I've got to check something. Just a minute."

With a sigh the elderly man nodded.

John fished his phone from the pocket of his trousers. Not surprising all four messages were from his flatmate.

10: 45 AM. _- JOHN, where are you ? SH -_

John sighed. That was exactly how it always started when Sherlock was bored. Probably he'd solved the case in under ten minutes and was back at the flat, bored. John didn't read the other text messages, but continued his work after turning off his phone.

Five hours later John was done with his last patient for the day. He was just considering asking out Sarah, when he remembered his mobile. Prepared for a flood of messages he switched it on. What he saw made him frown. Sherlock had texted him three more times and had called him twice. Sherlock NEVER calls, when he could text. Furthermore there were two missed calls from Lestrade.

'Oh god Sherlock, what have you done now?', John mumbled to himself and started to read the messages.

11:05 _- John, that is not funny. Tell me where you are! SH -_

_11:20 - Never mind. Lestrade says you are probably at the surgery. Dull. You are missing all the fun. SH -_

_12:27 - Really John, you should be here to see this. Anderson's idiocy has reached a new high just now. A HIGH, John. Do you get it? SH -_

What the hell was he talking about? John tried to remember what Lestrade had told them about the case, that morning. Some sort of drug dealer had been found dead in a flat in West Hampstead. Probably an overdose. Maybe a suicide. Possibly a murder, considering that was the fourth body in as many days. ' A new high indeed', thought John. Hadn't he known Sherlock as well as he did, the doctor would have got the impression, that the man was high himself. The next message though, made him revise the thought as quickly as it has occurred.

_14:48 - Don't listen to Lestrade. It's fine. It's all fine. SH - _

Oh no. That surely didn't sound reassuring at all. John continued reading.

_15:05 - I might have very slightly overestimated how fine it is. (*) SH - _

John's heart rate doubled at this point. Sherlock freely admitting that he made a mistake was probably the worst possible scenario. Quickly scrolling down to the last message, John put on his coat and stormed out the door, while reading.

_15:54 - Oh God, John. SH - _

Both calls from Sherlock had been between his fifth and sixth text message, while Lestrade had called him between the fourth and fifth and shortly after Sherlock had stopped texting. A quick glance to his watch confirmed John's suspicion that Lestrade's last call hadn't been more than thirty minutes ago. Frantically the doctor pushed the number 1 on his mobile. Sherlock didn't pick up. Instead John was greeted by a voice mail recording.

'_This is Sherlock Holmes. Don't leave a message after the stupid beep. Voice mail is dull. Text me instead.' _

Not being able to get a hold on his flatmate, John dialled Lestrade's number and resolved to put it on speed dial for the umpteenth time. The DI picked up on the third ring.

"John?"

"Greg! What's wrong? What did he do this time?", John asked, trying to keep a cool head.

"Listen John, you should probably get here as soon as… hang on… Sherlock, that's really not a good idea right now, put it down, will you? Thank you. … John?"

"I'm here. Where are you? What's going on?" Hearing something break in the background, followed by a curse from Sherlock, John started to worry in earnest.

"Sherlock, oh for god's sake… " After a few seconds of even more disturbing noises, Lestrade refocused on the call.

"John, listen…"

"What was that? Where the HELL are you two?" John asked, trying to keep his left hand from shaking.

"Sherlock just fell. Don't worry, he's fine. Well, he will be… I guess…", Lestrade said, without answering any of John's questions.

"GREG!", the doctor shouted.

"All right, all right. We are at Baker Street. I'll explain when you get here… You better hurry, though.", Lestrade said with a rather strained voice.

"I'm on the way…", John answered, flagging down a cab.

A seemingly endless twelve minutes later John ran up the seventeen steps to the flat. Still in the hallway he could hear Lestrade's voice, obviously trying to be calming and failing miserably.

John opened the door and instantly looked for the tall detective, but all he saw was what seemed to be a spilt cup of tea on the floor and a rather dishevelled Inspector. Lestrade's shirt was stained with some sort of yellow-ish liquid and his sleeves were rolled up.

"John! Thank God!", he exclaimed exasperated.

"Greg, good God, what happened to you? Are you all right?", John answered concerned, still looking around the flat for Sherlock.

Lestrade looked puzzled for a moment, but when John gestured to his shirt he answered. "Oh that. That's just juice… at least I hope it is."

"Oh, good. Now, do you care to tell me what the hell is going on here?", John asked impatiently.

Lestrade considered the answer for a second, but decided it would be best to stick to the facts. "Well, basically Sherlock exposed a major drug dealing ring in about four hours…something we've been working on for months…", he began. "Okay… good…", John said carefully.

"… and in the process got himself accidentally drugged.", Lestrade admitted slowly.

John's heart skipped a beat. "He… WHAT? Oh my god. How the HELL can someone get 'accidentally' drugged?"

Lestrade looked utterly guilty.

"Well, you know him, don't you? There was this corpse and Sherlock did what he always does, taking everything in, going through the pockets and so on. Unfortunately the stiff had a couple of syringes with some kind of drug in his jacket and….well… Sherlock accidentally got a bit of it in his system. At first he seemed to be fine. No change in his behaviour whatsoever. But after a while he started to go paranoid and fidgety, hitting Anderson with a spoon and pouring juice all over me, when I tried to get him away from the crime scene. We had to cuff him to get him out of the house. I figured it would be best to get him back here…considering his… history. Listen John. I'm really sorry, I don't know how this could happen… "

John almost choked on all the things he wanted to ask Lestrade. Hell, this was worse than he had anticipated. Taking a few deep breaths and putting his thoughts in order, John spoke after a few seconds.

"He pricked himself on a - possible used - syringe, filled with an unknown substance, then started to freak out, and you 'figured' it would be best to bring him here? Really Greg?", John's anger was more than evident in his voice, though he couldn't decide what pissed him off more, Lestrade's carelessness, or Sherlock's stupidity.

"Where is he? I need to get him to A&E!", John almost shouted at the Inspector.

"Don't need A&E. 'M perfectly fine, John.", came a slightly slurred voice from behind the sofa. Slurred, but definitely Sherlock's.

"No, of course not! You are absolutely fine. Dosed up on whatever foreign drug, you got into your body by pricking your hand on a fucking dirty syringe. What was I thinking, of course you are fine.", John shouted before he was able to think about it.

Sherlock whimpered, literary whimpered, in response. John again took a few deep breaths, and decided it probably wouldn't help to agitate the man further. Slowly and deliberately John approached the sofa. Sherlock was sitting behind it, knees drawn up impossibly tight to his chest, arms folded around them, head leaning back and eyes shut tightly. The trademark coat was missing and Sherlock's shirt was completely unbuttoned. John could see the man's pulse pounding unnaturally high on his bare throat and a fine film of perspiration covered Sherlock's body completely. 'At least he's not bleeding.' John thought and also noted with relief, that Lestrade obviously had removed the handcuffs, when he'd brought Sherlock back to the flat.

Huddled up in this position Sherlock seemed at least a decade younger and looked more like a frightened child than a grown man. Seeing his flatmate like that made John abandon all thoughts of getting Sherlock to A&E, where he - all things considered - definitely should be right now.

"Sherlock, what are you doing behind the sofa?", John asked carefully.

"He's hiding there since he broke the bloody teacup, shortly after we got here. I tried to get him into bed, but he… let's say, he refused to comply.", provided Lestrade from the background. John nodded, though he wasn't sure whether the Inspector could see him or not.

"Sherlock?", John said once more, trying to get a reaction out of the detective. When, again, he received no answer he dared to move closer and touched Sherlock gently on one shoulder.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he took John's hand in an iron grip. "Don't tell him where I am John. You MUST NOT TELL him. Promise it! He must not find me. PROMISE IT!", Sherlock whispered, panic and confusion evident in his wide eyes. The small, doctor-y part of John noticed that Sherlock's pupils were so small, they were barely visible. 'At least it wasn't cocaine, then', John thought, with a bit of relief. 'Possibly some kind of narcotic…'

"PROMISE me, John.", Sherlock urged again and put John out of his thoughts.

"Who must not find you?", John asked quietly.

"Lestrade, of course.", Sherlock hissed.

"Why?", John asked confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because he wants to do THINGS to me, John. Don't you see? He drugged and cuffed me! ME! And then he tried to get into my bedroom. I always knew he had a bit of a thing for me, but I never imagined he would be into the whole bondage stuff…" Sherlock trailed off, evidently trying to think about it. John blushed in embarrassment at what Sherlock was implying. Suddenly the detective's eyes focused on John again. "Promise me!… Please!", he begged.

"I promise you Sherlock. I promise Lestrade will not find you.", John said loud enough for the DI to hear. Evidently Lestrade understood the hint, even if he hadn't heard the earlier conversation. John could hear the footsteps of the man, as he left the flat. Before the front door closed though, John's phone vibrated once again in his pocket.

"What was that? Did he find me? John! You promised, he wouldn't find me!", Sherlock cried, curling up in an even tighter ball.

"It's fine Sherlock, it was just my phone, all right. Nobody's going to hurt you.", John assured, before reading the message.

_17:02 - I'm in front of the house. Call me if you need help! Greg - _

John shook his head, although Lestrade couldn't see him.

_17:02 - No. Go and find out what kind of drug it was and get the syringe to a lab. I need to know if it was used! I can manage here. JW - _

John wrote back.

Then he put his phone away, concentrating on the task at hand . The detective hadn't moved an inch and for a moment John thought he had fallen asleep. The tense posture, spoke otherwise though. John didn't know what to do. He desperately wanted to know, what exactly had happened. What kind of drug was Sherlock on? What were the side effects? How long was this trip going to last? Would it be a trigger for Sherlock's former addiction?

"Sherlock, do you think you can get up, so we can get you somewhere more comfortable?", John asked carefully.

Sherlock slowly shook his head. After what seemed like an eternity he lifted his eyes again, looking pleadingly at John.

"What? What is it?", John asked concerned, looking around, trying to find out what had upset his flatmate now.

"Bin…", Sherlock provided with clenched teeth, almost inaudible.

"What?", John asked confused.

"Get a bin!", Sherlock commanded hardly louder, but growing paler and paler each passing second. Suddenly John understood and scrambled off to get a bin. He just managed to get it to Sherlock in time, before the detective started to throw up violently. The bout continued for endless minutes, leaving Sherlock sweating and shivering at the same time, and John helplessly patting his friend's back.

Once there was definitely nothing left in Sherlock's stomach to bring up, he fell back to lean on the wall, exhausted.

"God, I hate this.", he said after catching his breath. John almost smiled at that. Almost.

"No one likes being sick, Sherlock.", he answered gently.

"No, that's not what I… I mean, yes, I hate that too, but…See that's exactly my point. I hate THIS. The confusion, the nausea, not being able to move, to THINK. All of this, it's just…argh…", Sherlock groaned frustrated. John didn't fail to notice, that Sherlock seemed much more coherent and…, well himself, than just a few minutes ago.

"Do you think you could open your eyes for me? Just for a second.", John prompted. He wanted to take a look at Sherlock's pupils.

"So you can shine a light into them, to check my pupillary reflex, doctor? I don't think so. But you're right, drug's wearing off." 'Yes, definitely more like his usual self', John concluded.

"Fine. I'll just take care of the bin then, shall I?" Sherlock nodded slowly.

"Bring it back, though.", he said after a second of consideration.

"Are you going to be sick again?", John asked, halfway to the bathroom already, where he took care of the mess, bringing back the empty bin with him.

"Maybe. Probably… God I HATE Ketamine!", Sherlock complained again.

"Keta…? What…?", John asked stunned.

"Ketamine, John. Ketamine hydrochlorid, to be specific. An anaesthetic drug and analgesic, originally used by medical professionals, as well as veterinarians.", Sherlock explained in his usual 'everyone's an idiot' tone, though his voice sounded very strained.

"I am aware of that, Sherlock. But…you KNEW what was in the syringe?", John asked taken aback.

"Suspected it, yes." Nodded Sherlock. "Given the substances and supplies in the flat of the man, and the circumstances of death, it was the best guess."

An unpleasant suspicion formed in John's stomach, as soon as Sherlock spoke.

"Hang on a second. You didn't prick yourself by accident, did you? You did it on purpose!"

"Obviously.", Sherlock shrugged. John could not believe that.

"Are you completely out of your mind? That syringe could have contained poison for what you knew. Not to mention tiny little viruses like Hepatitis, or HIV, if that thing was already used. Have you finally really gone mad?" John shouted angrily, barely able to fight the impulse to punch the man.

"Stop yelling, John. I was 98 percent sure, and of course I knew for certain, that the syringe was not contaminated.", the detective answered unperturbed.

"Not contaminated? You could have KILLED yourself with that stuff!", John said though clenched teeth.

"Highly unlikely.", Sherlock provided coolly.

"But not impossible!", John shouted.

"It was a necessary risk. The case depended on it."

"No, Sherlock. Absolutely NO. It was NOT necessary. You just wanted to proof, that you were the smartest, fucking person in the room."

Sherlock smiled a bit at that.

"I usually am."

"You are unbelievable, you know that? And I don't mean that in a nice way, Sherlock.", John spat.

"Don't fuss, John. I'm fine. I am perfectly fine.", Sherlock said, still trembling violently ever so often.

"You are fine?", John asked, his usually endless patience with the man gone completely. "Well, let's see how fine you are, shall we?", John grunted, grabbing his coat.

"John? What are you doing?", Sherlock asked a bit concerned.

"I'm leaving, Sherlock. I am SO done with this shit. You are fine? Good, great, wonderful. Be fine by yourself then!"

With that John stormed out of the flat, slamming the door in a rage.

**TBC…**

* * *

* Quote from John Finnemore's BBC Radio 4 sitcom 'Cabin pressure' Series 2.4 'Johannesburg'. If you don't know it, go and seek it out! It's absolutely brilliant ;)

**Keyword(s)**: Intoxicated/Idiotic

Additional notes: I had a totally different story in mind, when I started writing this, but the boys wouldn't comply. So blame them for the angst and the cliffhanger. Ch.14 Should be up really soon. Promise :)


	14. 14 L

**A/N: **So, here is the continuation of Chapter 13. I'm really sorry (yeah, okay, I'm not) for the cliffhanger , but I hope this chapter will make up for it. I'm not entirely happy with the beginning, but I really like the end. So let me know what you think.

Also, on a different note, the wonderful SherlockandJohn221B volunteered to collaborate on some of the 365 chapters. And because she's simply amazing, the updates should come much more frequently in the future. :)

**Warnings: **mentioning of drug abuse, (probably) slightly OOC Sherlock, a bit of fluff, a bit of angst, the usual :)

* * *

**L …**

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"_

John walked the so familiar streets of London for hours, trying to think about what had just happened. At the same time he desperately didn't want to think about it. Every time he remembered his last conversation with Sherlock, his anger came back in full force, making his left hand tremble and his leg hurt. On the other hand, every time his memory provided the picture of the dark-haired man, sitting curled up in a tiny ball behind the sofa and practically begging him to keep him safe, something else stirred in the doctor. Guilt. Rationally John knew he shouldn't feel guilty. It wasn't his fault. Sherlock had done that to himself, just to prove a point. Just to prove his brilliance. Stupid idiot.

Night had fallen, and the early spring air grew colder each passing minute when John finally slumped down on a wooden bench in Regent's Park. Still torn between anger and guilt, John honestly didn't know what to do. He was hungry and cold, but his options were very limited, given all he carried with him were the clothes on his body, his keys and his mobile phone. He couldn't buy dinner, or check into a hotel, because his wallet still was at the flat. He sure as hell didn't want to go back to Baker Street. He didn't want to go to Sarah or Lestrade either, because he didn't want to explain the situation. On second thought though, the DI probably deserved to know the new information.

Sighing John fished the mobile out of his pocket and typed a quick text message to Lestrade.

_21:39 - Just to let you know, the drug is probably Ketamine and S. claimed the syringe has been clean. Pls check anyway! JW -_

Only a minute later the phone - still in the doctor's hand - buzzed.

_21:40 - Will do. How is he? Greg - _

Another stab of guilt and fury twisted John's stomach.

_21:41 - Last time I saw him he assured me he is 'perfectly fine', no reason for me to doubt that! JW- _

_21:42 - Last time you saw him? Where are you? What happened? Greg - _

John sighed. He knew he should tell Lestrade the truth. He deserved it, for all the times he defended Sherlock. _This unbelievably, stupid idiot!_ John thought again, before typing a reply.

_21:43 - Regents Park. We had a bit of a fight, well a major fight really. Needed to get out! JW -_

There was a long pause, before the next message arrived. A pause in which John, once again, tried to figure out what to do next. Lestrade saved him though.

_21:49 - You did, didn't you? Care to tell me what it was about? Maybe over a pint or two? Greg - _

John didn't have to think about that.

_21:49 - Oh god, yes. You'd have treat me though, I'm afraid. JW - _

—

More than two hours and a couple of pints later John stood in front of the black door to 221 Baker Street. He'd filled in Lestrade on everything, and after talking to the DI for a while the concern about his flatmate soon had dominated the fury. Not that he wasn't still angry, far from it, but first and foremost John was a doctor and he just couldn't leave Sherlock alone in his current condition. God only knew what else the detective was going trough in his intoxicated state. Not to mention all the ideas he could get. Leaving Sherlock alone in the flat was always a risk, even if the man was thinking straight. John really didn't want to imagine what the detective/genius/idiot might come up with at a time like this.

Taking a deep breath, John finally unlocked the front door and walked up the stairs to 221b. The flat was pitch dark and eerily quiet. John took a few moments to listen. Nothing. Not a single sound.

"Sherlock?", John asked quietly into the darkness. When he got no reply, John inched his way forward into the living room. He didn't want to startle Sherlock so he just switched on the desk light.

The room was utterly deserted. The spot where Sherlock had been hidden before was empty of any lanky detectives. The only indicators for what had happened a few hours ago were a slightly crumpled coat and the abandoned bin. _The empty bin_, John noted.

Slowly the doctor made his way to Sherlock's bedroom. On his way there he spotted a half full glass of water on top of the fridge, but nothing else out of the ordinary. Knocking cautiously on the not entirely closed door, John swung it open completely. A small light illuminated the room, but just like in the living room, there was no sign of Sherlock. Still, John strongly suspected that his flatmate had been here. A pretty clear clue to that were the missing duvet from the bed and the crumpled shirt on the floor, which currently served as bedding for the cat.

John realised that the bathroom door also was standing slightly ajar.

Entering the small room the doctor finally found, what he was looking for, or rather who he was looking for.

Curled up as tight as possible, given his tall complexion, Sherlock lay sandwiched in the tiny space between the bathtub and the toilet. Covered from head to toes in his dark duvet, John couldn't make out whether the detective was awake or not.

"Sherlock?", he asked carefully. His flatmate murmured something unintelligible.

'_Not asleep then'_ John concluded."What was that?", he asked.

"Are you real?" The question caught John off guard. Wondering what Sherlock had been through the last few hours, he approached the man and slowly peeled the duvet from Sherlock's face. To say he was pale would have been an understatement. Sherlock's face was ashen, his slightly damp, black curls a sharp contrast to the unhealthy pallor. John extended his hand to Sherlock's forehead, feeling for a temperature, but finding none. Instead the skin was cool and clammy. Sherlock didn't flinch away from the touch, but opened his eyes and looked at John sceptically. "Tell me!", he urged, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me you are real!" John sighed. Never before had the detective appeared that … lost.

"I am.", John finally assured him. "I am real, Sherlock. I'm here." Sherlock nodded and seemed to relax a little bit. Very slowly the tall man tried to unfold his stupidly long limbs, but failed miserably when he got tangled up in his duvet. With an unnerved sigh he sank back to his former position. John took his cue and helped Sherlock to sit up, with his back against the bath tub. The longer the doctor was in the presence of his friend, the more his previous anger ebbed off. He still thought it was an incredible stupid idea to inject a drug, just for a case - especially with Sherlock's history - but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to scold the younger man for his idiocy. Instead he felt the desperate need to get Sherlock off the floor and somewhere comfortable. Preferably in his - Sherlock's, mind you - bed.

"How are you feeling?", John asked, when his friend seemed to be able to sit on his own, without falling over. Sherlock shrugged.

"Come on Sherlock. Give me something to work with here!"

The detective shrugged again, but answered the question this time. "Tired, my fine motor skills are terribly lacking, the head hurts… well in fact EVERYTHING hurts… the usual things."

"The usual…? What the…No, forget it, don't answer that. I really don't want to know now. What really interests me though is: What are you doing on the floor in the bathroom? Still feeling nauseous?", John said.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. No nausea."

"Then why are you in here?"

Sherlock seemed to think hard about that, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn't come up with an explanation.

"I don't know, John. Can't remember.", he answered at last.

"YOU can not remember?", John asked surprised.

"Memory loss is not uncommon with Ketamine. Really John, shouldn't you know these things? That's one of the reasons I hate it so much."

John accepted the explanation and ignored the minor insult completely. No sense in getting angry again, wasn't it.

"Fine. However. Do you think we could perhaps move you to your room or something?", the shorter man asked.

Ten minutes later and after a lot of shoving and dragging from John, Sherlock lay in his bed, with Ginger possessively resting on the man's legs. His eyes were closed, and John was pretty sure that Sherlock was an the edge of sleep, when his dark-haired companion raised his voice again.

"I was almost certain. That you were real I mean. None of the others touched me."

"What others?", John asked cautiously, afraid to agitate his friend.

Sherlock just shrugged, resigned. . "All kinds of people. Yarders, clients … corpses. Animals, colours..."

"Corpses…?", John parroted.

Sherlock nodded. "Hallucinations, John. Optical, acoustical, olfactory, gustatory, sensory even. A common side effect of the drug. Most of them are easily to identify as that. Hallucinations. Familiar people are much more difficult though. Anyway, they seem to be gone now."

Once again John was half fascinated half shocked about the level of clarity Sherlock had been able to retain on his little 'trip'. But then again, it WAS Sherlock.

"So… by gone, you mean…?" John pried further.

"The effects of the drug are gone, yes." Sherlock confirmed, his voice still quiet and exhausted. John nodded, though he was pretty sure that Sherlock couldn't see him, because he had shut his eyes tightly once again.

"So it's all back to normal then?", John asked with uncertainty in his voice.

"Hm…Not entirely, but in a few hours the aftereffects will have worn off too, I guess.", Sherlock answered tiredly.

"That's… that's not what I meant Sherlock. Will it…? Will THIS…?" He just couldn't do that. He couldn't ask Sherlock outright about the specifics of his former addiction - and John genuinely hoped the term _former_ still applied here.

Sherlock opened one eye curiously. It took him a minute to get John's meaning, but then it clicked.

"Will it trigger a relapse? That's what you want to know.", he stated. John just nodded. He didn't trust his voice at the moment.

Oddly Sherlock smiled a bit at John's confirmation.

"You never asked me before. About the addiction."

Now it was John's turn to shrug. "Well I thought that… It didn't seem as if you wanted to talk about it. You told me you started doing drugs, when your grandfather died and…" Sherlock flinched visibly when John mentioned his grandfather, so the doctor didn't dare to continue. Still. Sherlock hadn't answered the question yet. The only thing John desperately wanted to know right now.

"So will it trigger…something?", he asked at last.

Sherlock slowly shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"You don't THINK so?", John asked dumbfounded. "So it IS possible?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Everything IS possible, John. There are thousands of possible triggers and I won't lie to you by telling you that I never thought about taking cocaine again. No addiction is cured. Ever. You know that. But I don't want to lose all I've worked for, therefore no. I don't think this episode will trigger a relapse. I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

John didn't know how to respond to that. He really didn't know. He felt relief and dread at the same time at the words. Of course John knew, that an addict would never be considered cured. Someone could go for decades without relapsing, just to turn back to the drugs for some reason or the other. He was glad that Sherlock knew that his current life wouldn't be possible if he hadn't stopped taking drugs. On the other hand there obviously still were times, when Sherlock was entertaining the thought of using again, which worried John on some level. 'No!', John swore himself. '_No. I won't let that happen.'_

Clearing his - suddenly very dry - throat, the doctor broke the burdensome silence.

"All right. Good. That's… good to know. Thank you. Well, I think you should probably try to sleep. I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

Switching off the small lamp, John turned to leave the room, when Sherlock's voice made him stop.

"John?"

"What is it Sherlock?"

There was a long pause. Long enough to make John think Sherlock had already fallen asleep, but then the detective spoke up again.

"Would you mind, staying here for a little while?"

Surprised John looked at the curled up form on the bed. The darkness making it hard to tell whether Sherlock's was looking at him or had his eyes closed. Either way, John couldn't bring himself to deny his friend's request. Pulling up a chair next to the bed he said, "Fine. I'll stay. Just try to sleep, will you? You gigantic idiot!"

"I'm not an idiot, John. I'm a high functioning genius. Do your research!", Sherlock mumbled with a smile on his face. John chuckled quietly.

"Thank you, though." Sherlock said after a while.

"Hm..?", John didn't understand.

"Thank you … for coming back!", Sherlock clarified and a bit reluctantly he added, "I am lost without my Blogger."

Really smiling for the first time in many hours, John settled into the comfortable chair.

"Yes, you are!", he whispered and watched over Sherlock when the detective finally succumbed to sleep.

* * *

**Keyword: **Lost


	15. 15 L

**A/N: **I cheated a bit on that one. It's a 221b style chapter (221 words, the last word beginning with a B).

This chapter is a little insight in Sherlock's mind, when he was drugged and alone in the flat. So you probably should read the chapters 13 and 14 before that one. Also I promise it will be the last one in this sequence, so all the following chapters are stand-alone's as usual. Enjoy and stay tuned, because the next chapter will be amazing :)

**Warnings: **drug references, major angst

* * *

**L … **

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"_

The influence of the drug kept making him seeing things. Beautiful things like colours and shapes. Boring, predictable things, like former clients and Mycroft and Mummy. Interesting things like crime scenes and bodies. Terrifying things like his father, when he already was in the tight grip of Alzheimer's the only thing Sherlock didn't see, was the only thing that really mattered. The one thing he cared more about in his life than anything else was gone. John. He would never freely admit that, of course, but without him he wasn't sure he did want to carry on. What did it matter if he solved one case after another if he couldn't hear his friend telling him how _amazing, extraordinary_ and _brilliant _his deductions were? Why should he fight the still occurring cravings for cocaine, when there was nothing worth keeping sober for? No. He didn't want to go back to a live _before John. _Deep down, he knew he couldn't. Couldn't take the insults from Donovan and Anderson. Couldn't stand the constant loneliness. Couldn't…

The door clicked and Sherlock heard very familiar footsteps on the stairs to the flat. With relief washing over him and making his eyes tear up he sunk back in his little spot between the toilet and the tub. He wasn't lonely anymore.

John was back.

* * *

**Keyword:** Lonely


	16. 16 T

**A/N: **All credits to this chapter go to the amazing SherlockandJohn221B , who volunteered to write (much better than me, of course) a few chapters of this insanely long story. Please be kind enough to leave a review, because she really, really deserves it. :)

**Warnings: **none, I guess…

* * *

**T …**

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street" _

_(written by the wonderful _SherlockandJohn221B )

It was cold out, and John could feel the chill of the London air as he hurried behind his taller companion.

"Sherlock, stop this. Where are we going? No. Don't turn up your coat collar and pretend you can't hear me. You may claim to not have a heart, but I _know_ you can hear me."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, and turned towards him.

"Obviously, John, we are going back to the flat. Haven't you been paying attention? We took a left after a right turn 575 meters ago and completely circled that park by the grocery. We're just coming around the flat from the Southeast, instead of from the North. Haven't I told you countless times, John that 'You see but you don't observe'?"

"_Obviously_ not enough," John muttered under his breath, as he rushed to catch up with his friend, who seemed to be in an unusually bad mood for the afternoon. They had already solved a case, (Boring, according to Sherlock), and John had eaten a lunch - which Sherlock had declined, claiming that he needed time after a case to process useful information and store it in his hard drive, therefore eating would slow him down. This seemed illegitimate to John, but he had kept quiet, and enjoyed his sandwich. Sherlock now was slowing down, but as John's mind began to focus back again on where they were going, he realised that they didn't seem to be anywhere near the house. He paused, and turned around for a moment, to scan his surroundings, and when he turned back, the younger detective was on the ground. John rushed to him and took his pulse, which was high - but normal for Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," came the muffled reply. John would've laughed at the tone, if he wasn't so concerned by the actions of his friend.

"Sherlock, can you tell me…" John trailed off. He didn't want to treat Sherlock like a child; he just knew that the younger man would take it the wrong way, but at the same time… He needed help. "Sherlock, what hurts?"

An hour later, John and Sherlock were both in the living room of their flat. John was sitting in his favourite chair which had been pulled up next to the couch where the world's only consulting detective was laying, uncharacteristically with his eyes closed, and taking deep breaths, per request of John.

"Alright. Now that you've gotten home without too much incident care to explain what all of this is about?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the couch, and his face turned a shade of green as he did this. "It was nothing really, John. I just…" A look of pain crossed his face, and he quickly shut his mouth, causing him to wince and hope that John hadn't noticed his reaction. Unfortunately for him, ever the doctor, John picked up on this before Sherlock could say another word in his defence.

"Sherlock, you passed out, you could barely walk home, you have a fever of 38 degrees, I haven't seen you eat in days, and yet you've spent the last 20 minutes reviewing the contents of your stomach. You are not alright, and it is NOT nothing. Explain yourself please."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know John, that most of those 'symptoms' could be caused by the common cold or a case of influenza? Who's to say that anything's wrong?"

"Well perhaps if you would stop being stubborn, I would. Now, let me see your throat, I want to see if it's swollen."

Sherlock obliged for a moment, knowing it wouldn't be swollen, but then recoiled at the opening of his mouth so widely. Then he groaned, knowing that he had just alerted the doctor to the exact problem he was facing.

"Ah, well then. That makes a difference, now doesn't it? Let me think. Is it on the left side or the right side of your mouth?" Sherlock quietly whispered something that could've been interpreted as the word left. John searched his mind for all of the treatments that he could recall for toothaches, and suddenly it hit him. Well, Sherlock hit him, but then the idea did too.

"John, bin…" Sherlock said weakly, and John moved the bin towards him as he stood up and went to the kitchen.

"I'll be right back, Sherlock," he said before he turned the corner.

Of course, it all made sense now. The toothache had led to Sherlock not eating, but the lack of food had caused him to pass out. The toothache had also caused the fever, which explained the vomiting; although, John thought, that must be even more unpleasant than usual, given that there was little to nothing in Sherlock's stomach. As he thought, he worked, mixing warm water and salt in a cup and then heating up a tea bag. He squeezed the excess water out of the tea bag, and brought the cup and bag out on a tray to Sherlock, who looked slightly paler than before.

"Sherlock, I know this sounds comical, but I need you to gargle this salt water, alright? It won't taste terrible or very good, but you have to do it- it'll help, alright?" John pushed the water towards him, and helped him to very slowly sit up more than he was. He watched on as Sherlock put the cup to his lips and nearly gagged at the seemingly unexpected saltiness of the water.

"I told you it was salt water, "John lightly scolded after Sherlock had finally gargled. "You had to know it was going to taste like that! Now, I have one last idea for you, otherwise I'm just going to give you some paracetamol and you'll have wait for it to go away, seeing that there's no actual damage to the tooth. Now, here's a tea bag. I need you to hold this against your tooth for a while, until it loses its warmth, alright? Then I'm giving you some medication anyways, and you're going to bed. No arguments. I'm your doctor, and you'll follow my orders."

Sherlock grudgingly obliged and placed the tea bag on his tooth. He was clearly getting bored, and John saw this, so he grabbed a book for him to read and, seeing that he hadn't thrown up for 20 minutes, decided to go and get ready for bed himself. He showered and got dressed, an when he came back out to the living room, was shocked to see Sherlock, asleep on the couch with the book open, down on his chest, and the tea bag on the tray next to him. Quietly he pulled a blanket over his friend, removed and closed the book, and placed it on the table behind his head, without making a sound. Then he cleaned up the room, and as he put the tray away at last, he decided to keep watch over Sherlock, and fell asleep in the chair across from him.

John Watson woke up the next morning to the soft gaze of two grateful blue eyes.

* * *

**Keyword: **Toothache


	17. 17 H

**A/N**:Okay, this chapter is a lot shorter than I intended it to be, so yeah, sue me. Enjoy this rare moments of humour though, because the angst will definitely be back in the next chapter :)

Also, any guesses yet about the pattern? :) Probably to soon for that, hm?

And as usual, thank you sooooo much for all the reviews/fav/follows. You are way to kind. (But keep them coming anyway!)

**Warnings: **none

* * *

**H …**

_a novella of "365 days at 221b Baker Street"_

Practically buzzing with excitement Sherlock mentally willed the cab to go faster. After days of boredom, Lestrade had finally called this morning. Three bodies had been found last night. Suspected triple suicide, according to the DI, but something was not right. There was no apparent link between the victims and still they were found at exactly the same spot, at exactly the same time.

Sherlock had barely remembered to turn his Bunsen burner off, before he rushed out, closely followed by a still not entirely awake John.

Already going through the endless possibilities in his head, the cab ride was spent in comfortable silence. That was, until John heard something very strange. A low grumbling, coming from the general direction of his younger friend.

"Sherlock? What was that?", he asked Sherlock surprised, but the detective was already too deep in his mind-palace to hear the question. Therefore John decided to drop the subject for the moment, but swore to himself to keep his eyes and ears open.

Twenty minutes later, they were standing on the bank of the Thames, near Battersea Bridge - surrounded by Lestrade, Sally Donovan and (_For god's sake, really? _) Anderson. While Lestrade was still in the midst of filling them in, Sherlock was already examining the bodies. Two women and a man, young, from what John could see so far.

"There is no obvious cause of death and no connection between the victims. They just seem to have gathered here and dropped dead.", Anderson said irritated.

"As usual, you are wrong."; Sherlock pointed out, when he re-joined the little group.

Four sets of eyes, looked at the consulting Detective quizzically, but Sherlock only fixed John with his pale blue/grey/greenish eyes. When the doctor raised his eyebrows in question, Sherlock sighed.

"What do you think?", he voiced his previously unspoken question.

"Oh…", John said, looking at Lestrade. "May I?" The Inspector nodded his consent.

John had been right with his former guess. All three dead people were young, probably in their early twenties. Other than that, they had absolutely nothing in common. One of the girls wore an expensive dress and jewellery John would have had to work for half a year to afford. The second girl was dressed in old, torn jeans and a plain blue T-shirt, while the young man was obviously fond of black clothing, piercings and chains. John had just bent down to examine the victims ears, when he heard the noise again. The same noise Sherlock had made during their ride to the crime scene.

Suddenly all eyes were fixed on the dark-haired man.

"What the hell was that?", Sally asked.

"Nothing. Just ignore it!", Sherlock answered, and John could have sworn he looked just a tiny bit self-conscious.

"Was that your stomach?", Lestrade asked genuinely surprised.

"I said ignore it!", Sherlock snapped at him and focused on John again.

"So, what do you think?"

John just couldn't let this opportunity slip. "Of your stomach? I think it wants to tell you, that it would appreciate food every once in a while."

Sherlock shot his friend a dangerous look. "Not of my stomach. What do you think of the bodies? Pay attention, John!"

The doctor sighed heavily, but turned his attention back at the task at hand.

"Well, they are all about the same age, I guess. Nothing much in common beyond that….", John began. Sherlock was on the brink of rolling his eyes, when John continued. "… except for the tattoos."

"Tatt…tattoos?", Anderson asked surprised.

Sherlock on the other hand ignored him and just smiled proudly at John.

"But what have some random tattoos to do with their death?", Lestrade asked.

"Everything!"; Sherlock exclaimed, excitedly. He drew a deep breath, ready for a stunning deduction, but the moment he opened his mouth, his stomach - once again - growled viciously.

"Oh for god's sake!", Donovan murmured, rummaging around in the pocket of her jacket. Finally she drew out a small chocolate bar and held it out for the detective.

Sherlock looked at her, as if she suddenly had grown a second head.

"What IS that?", he asked, disgust evident on his face.

"It's called food, freak! You should try it. It keeps your stomach from making this funny noises."

Sherlock drew another deep breath, this time to tell Sally where exactly she could put that chocolate bar, when he felt John's hand on his back. He knew it was John's. No one else ever dared to touch him at times like this.

"Just take it, Sherlock!", John said, barely loud enough for the taller man to hear.

Almost before he realised it, Sherlock took the small item from Sally and unwrapped it.

With a certain kind of awe, four people watched the world's only consulting detective eating a chocolate bar, on a sunny day in the middle of a crime scene. Funny enough, everyone found it strangely fitting.

When he had finished his little snack, Sherlock licked the remaining chocolate of his long fingers in a way, that made John blush furiously, though he couldn't tell why.

Finally done Sherlock wrinkled his nose a bit in disapproval. "Peanuts… I don't like peanuts.", he said to no one in particular.

"He means, 'Thank you'.", John quickly said to Sally, who just waved her hand dismissively and gave a satisfied smile.

* * *

**Additional notes: **I decided to end it here, because Sherlock's eating habits (or lack thereof) will be the main theme in the next chapter. I hope you like this one anyway :)

**Keyword: **Hungry


End file.
